Black Myth's Producer Revisited: Who Killed Our Games?
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Black Myth's Producer Revisited: Who Killed Our Games?
My dear players, I hear your mournful cries behind me, but capital keeps seductively smiling at me from ahead.
Navigating Web3 tides with focused insightsCitation
Failure! On to the next failure!
Right now, countless game development teams are heading toward failure. Close your eyes and picture this scene—then open them and look around. Is it happening right beside you?
In 2006, over 60 independently developed online games launched in China. Fewer than 15 of them survived and turned a profit. There’s no doubt about it: more than 75% either failed outright or fell far short of expectations! In the increasingly competitive Chinese online gaming market, that ratio is only getting worse. Freshly baked games hot off the production line never make it to large-scale promotion—they’re quietly dumped into the trash during internal testing at various stages. As for the rest? Try to recall the name of that blockbuster domestic title heavily promoted on 17173 last month, promising mass appeal and emptying streets upon release. You can’t remember, can you? “Here today, gone tomorrow”—this phrase perfectly describes most new online games today.
What went wrong?
Who murdered our games?
Why do we look around and see nothing but bloody corpses of finished products?
Has the golden era of “printing money while sleeping” four years ago vanished?
Have our once-beloved players suddenly turned fickle and monstrous?
This article does not aim to analyze external environments, market competition, cultural accumulation, user psychology, game content, or personal issues. Instead, it focuses narrowly on one internal aspect of game development—from the perspective of a game designer, which is my own role—to examine the causes behind the failure of self-developed games. This is not a guide on how to become a good game designer. Rather, it expresses the author's subjective views and shares practical lessons learned, hoping to serve as a warning to projects that haven't yet completely collapsed.
Stillborn Infants
Ten months of pregnancy, ending in stillbirth.
That may sound harsh, but if you've ever been part of a game project team that ultimately disbanded, you'll understand this metaphor is painfully accurate. Many games follow this disturbing pattern: developed for about a year, then swiftly canceled before most players ever get to see them. This could be due to investors chasing quick profits, poor decisions, chaotic management, shifting market tastes, lack of team experience—or even something like the Indonesian tsunami. But we cannot pinpoint the root cause: Was the sperm weak? Was gestation too short? Was nutrition inadequate? Was the doctor performing the C-section incompetent? Why can’t we deliver healthy babies (products) successfully?
One often-overlooked truth about successful games is this: their survival isn’t because they consumed more resources or took longer than most failed counterparts. People tend to unconsciously exaggerate the "elite," "hardworking," and "prolonged" aspects of game (or other product) development. They cite examples like “programmers debating physics engine improvements all night,” “artists painstakingly mixing tail flame effects using a 256-color palette,” “designers rejecting nearly 30 different boss concepts,” or “managers desperately convincing the board to delay launch by another year” to support these claims.
Is this really true?
Undeniably, work ethic and external conditions play crucial roles in ultimate success. Yet when everyone fixates on rare masterpieces born from slow, meticulous craftsmanship—“ten years to sharpen a single sword”—it creates an avoidance, a refusal to conduct comprehensive self-examination. The result is a so-called grand methodology for making good games—a formulaic approach where every discussion within the company becomes a seminar on how best to conform to this grand theory. In my view, this uniform interpretation of success is deeply suspect. It partially deflects criticism from the fundamental qualities of game creators themselves. Without questioning, there can be no reflection or improvement.
Back to reality—look at the games currently raking in huge profits. How many were cloned from the same template? Streetball is a great example. It was created within a year by a relatively inexperienced team (their first game had even failed), hastily completed, yet went on to dominate the online sports game market. This should prompt us to search beyond the usual narrative of “visionary leaders + elite talent + years of effort,” and instead seek something intrinsic to the developers themselves.
Alright, let’s recall what designers actually did before that final, heartbreaking stillbirth occurred.
The Cursed Team
I always wonder: did some failing projects lose the race from the very start? If we narrow this down specifically to game designers, it’s not hard to see that certain seeds were planted early in the conception phase—something growing steadily in someone’s mind, manifesting as an increasingly strong psychological suggestion:
“I deeply perceive its inherent flaws. I already foresee its inevitable failure.”
If your designers think this way, unfortunately, the team has been cursed by an unstoppable prophecy.
Now revisit your memories—but this time include multiple screens. Yes, colleagues’ colorful monitors during downtime. Images quickly form in your mind: overlapping chat windows, R-18 pictures, the latest American drama series, old classics from Blizzard or Valve…
Do you see anyone playing the game your team is testing? No.
Pay attention next time. If this is indeed the case, it’s the most typical symptom of being cursed.
Why don’t you play your own game?
“Why don’t you play our own game?”
Ask each colleague this question. Most might laugh at you, refusing to answer seriously; others may honestly reply: “What’s fun about it? I work on it all day—I’m sick of it, aren’t I?” If this comes from programmers or artists, you can ignore it. Even if they don’t love the game, they can still perform their duties adequately—though perhaps not exceptionally. But if such responses come from project designers, creative directors, or lead planners, then sadly, the worst-case scenario may have occurred:
When designers, especially the lead designer, show no enthusiasm for playing their own game, it’s an extremely dangerous sign in game development.
This sounds clichéd, similar to the saying “if you don’t enjoy your own game, how can you expect others to?” But for designers, I believe this lesson bears repeating, precisely because people have long grown numb to it.
At a previous company, we developed a small but engaging match-3 puzzle game. Almost everyone—not just developers—became loyal players during testing. After work, we enthusiastically formed teams and competed, proudly boasting about in-game victories and newly earned ranks. I handled sound effects and even created three different sets just for fun—including one with a hip-hop rap style. When officially launched, concurrent players quickly surpassed our expectations.
——yocar
Remember two things:
First, enthusiasm is not mere liking. No one can force you to like something. Some people simply dislike seeing their ideas become reality. But if a designer lacks the patience to invest significant personal time in their own game (that’s called enthusiasm), how can they discover its true playability? How can they empathize with players who obsess over it? How will they know what to do next to satisfy users?
Second, a good game is worth playing anytime. If a designer uses “played it to death” as an excuse, they’re essentially saying: I’ve given up. I don’t see anything exciting left in it (even though I haven’t really played it). Good grief—don’t make me endure this crap anymore! I’ve already racked my brain enough. Don’t I know better than you that it can’t be improved? Not at all!
Think carefully—doesn’t this feel devastating? When the core members of a project—the “prophets” whose job is to ponder gameplay, uncover new joys, and shape future development—are seemingly granted divine revelation of their creation’s bleak fate, even before actual failure occurs, and respond with helpless despair, refusing to touch the game—worse, beginning to resent it for bringing them endless frustration. It’s like soldiers still believing in victory, while commanders secretly prepare to surrender. What could possibly be worse?
During an observation of team members playing our own game, I noticed that designers’ average character levels weren’t higher than those of programmers or artists. The top-scoring designer had less experience, fewer kills, and participated in fewer matches than the highest-performing client-side programmer—by a factor of five. And the highest-scoring artist scored roughly equal to the sum total of all designers combined.
——yocar
Another terrifying fact: most designers believe this attitude goes unnoticed. True, they appear to work overtime, meticulously track every task, actively communicate across departments, and exchange humorless jokes. But the truth is often this simple and uncomfortable:
They truly, genuinely rarely play their own game.
So stop hiding. When designers express pessimism about their project, that attitude seeps into everyone’s hearts like spring rain, spreading rapidly through the entire team. Even the most oblivious member soon catches the mood, and you’ll witness the phenomenon described earlier: fewer and fewer colleagues play the game.
The destructive power of negative designers is immense. The despair they bring to the team runs deep. They were supposed to be the most motivated, passionate, and proactive individuals. Now, their most active efforts are merely passive reactions forced by circumstances. They were meant to be leaders driving change, yet they’ve lost basic courage. They no longer wish to explore what else makes the game enjoyable. They fear any major changes. They lack ambition, confidence, let alone vision to plan a future or draw blueprints for “our baby.” They blame each stage’s failures on various “valid reasons,” but never admit how they destroyed the spiritual foundation of the development team: that we’re making fun games.
If you look into their eyes, perhaps you’ll understand everything—that stagnant pool holds no flicker of idealism’s burning flame.
Closer to Designers, Farther from Players
Should we treat players like livestock?
Don’t be alarmed. Discussions on similar themes are commonplace and utterly unexaggerated within China’s (online game) design circles. To put it more gently: the wretched online game industry has bred scumbags like me, who spend every day pondering five propositions:
1. How to keep players addicted
2. How to extract more RMB from players
3. How to make players form cliques
4. How to incite mutual hatred among players
5. How to enable covert cash gambling and gold trading
Believe me, virtually every online game development company demands that designers implement numerous functional modules to achieve the above goals. The standard for evaluating a designer, particularly a numerical designer, is whether these points are thoroughly executed during actual operation. Of course, different game types emphasize different aspects.
Consequently, in many game development teams, designers focus not on researching how to make games more fun and richer, but on studying how to addict players, condition them to ally against others, engage in verbal abuse and murderous rage, and participate in safer online financial activities (gambling, virtual item trading, etc.).
Naturally, online games have spawned many unique features: a constant stream of new maps, monsters, levels, equipment; then rebirth systems, ascension mechanics; followed by double XP events, clan systems, chat megaphones, PK leaderboards, kick rights, anti-kick privileges; lottery cards, gold zones, 10x gold zones, 50x gold zones… Compared to outdated traditional single-player elements, these novelties achieved clear, even unprecedented economic success.
Thus, we celebrate ourselves, applauding our creativity, ecstatically dancing along a uniquely Chinese path to prosperity in online gaming.
This is the strangest phenomenon in online game development: We have become mathematicians analyzing recurrence relations and solving differential equations all day; physicians specializing in increasing patient drug dependency, constantly refining opium purification techniques; professional agitators and arms dealers encouraging people to ignore real-world rules, vent emotions recklessly, and intensify conflicts; underground casino bosses and black-market intermediaries.
We have become experienced game designers.
The lead designer on my last project was obsessed with numbers. He specialized in re-engineering every numeric aspect of the game—scores, physics parameters, reward ratios for events. He would敏锐ly detect every flaw, devise magical new formulas to fix them, spending enormous time testing and perfecting. But while he immersed himself in so-called “balance” and “rationality,” players quietly drifted away due to shallow content and monotonous gameplay.
——yocar
Interlude: Starting from Anti-Addiction
China introducing an “Online Game Anti-Addiction System” is nothing new. But why don’t Japan, South Korea, or Europe have such systems? Even the U.S., with the world’s highest internet penetration, relies only on game rating systems rather than rigid mandatory time limits to control audiences?
Why is China alone enacting regulations that seem severely damaging to an emerging market?
Someone might jump up shouting: “Chinese policy-making is always this crude.”
I say you're too naive, too simple, too young!
It’s the national context that determines everything. Only in China do we have such a massive population of “disillusioned individuals”—those unable to gain sufficient achievement in real life, adrift under the current education system, feeling anxiety and loss amid fierce social competition. These characteristics make them natural ideal users for the internet. In this country already suffering extreme population surplus and undergoing social transformation, the sheer size of this group directly caused China to become the world’s largest internet and online gaming nation within just a few years. Recall how internet cafes bloomed overnight across every street and alley, how gaming addiction became a universally recognized social menace—you’ll understand this easily.
What does “market mechanisms unable to self-regulate” mean? A British economist once said words familiar to us all:
“Capital fears lack of profit or low profit much like nature fears a vacuum. Given adequate profit, capital becomes bold. With 10% profit, it ensures use everywhere; with 20%, it grows active; with 50%, it takes risks; with 100%, it dares trample all human laws; with 300%, it dares commit any crime, even risking the gallows. If turmoil and conflict yield profit, it will encourage both war and chaos.”
What lies behind online game operators? Capital.
What is the essence of online games? Virtual existence and achievement.
What does China’s vast disillusioned population represent to capital? The finest, freshest flock of sheep ready for slaughter; a super gold mine unmatched anywhere else in the world; a perfect, untouched, richest virgin land.
Now let’s slightly revise that classic quote:
“Online game operators fear lack of profit or low profit much like their servers fear power outages. Given adequate profit, they forget the original sin of gaming. With 10% profit, they promote everywhere; with 20%, they falsely claim benevolence and tout benefits of playing; with 50%, they take risks, exploit human weaknesses solely to addict users; with 100%, they dare create illegal content, trample all real-world rules despite public outrage; with 300%, they dare incite players into the most twisted, insane acts, even risking shutdown. If the collapse of a generation brings profit, they will encourage that collapse.”
Tell me, under such national conditions, how can we expect this “invisible hand” to regulate effectively? If the state doesn’t intervene, how far would it go? Remember, capital never sees crying parents or players dying at keyboards. Corpses are its delicacy, tears its seasoning—it thrives on them, endlessly.
So don’t believe it when several major online game companies in Beijing issue a “Beijing Declaration” staunchly supporting anti-addiction measures, claiming no impact on revenue. That’s a classic Chinese-style farce of “government building the stage, enterprises performing.” If the Anti-Addiction System were implemented tomorrow, I guarantee those CEOs would weep bitterly at midnight. :)
The Dark Side of the Force
In Star Wars, the Force is the most powerful energy in the universe accessible to living beings. It has two sides: light and dark, like light and shadow. The light side gave rise to Jedi Knights; the dark side forged Darth Vader. Jedi use their power to uphold justice and equality for all life, while Darth Vader stops at nothing to fulfill his desires.
If we liken the Force to today’s online games, then the light side represents the healthy enjoyment players derive from games, while the dark side embodies the boundless greed behind game operators—capital. Then game designers resemble young Anakin Skywalker, whose connection to the Force is immensely strong—if his conviction remains firm, balance in the galaxy endures; if he falls, the entire galaxy plunges into irreversible ruin.
To determine whether your project’s designers have fallen to the dark side of the Force, immediately ask them: “Of all your work, what percentage genuinely improves gameplay versus what portion exists solely to make money, unrelated to fun?”
A cunning designer might turn around and lecture you: “Any work seemingly unrelated to gameplay actually enhances player enjoyment to some degree.”
Sadly, he’s already deeply corrupted by the dark side. Never trust such lies, just as online game operators will never admit: “The more you stay home rotting, the happier I am.”
Returning to the earlier topic, through this superficial critique of the industry, we can preliminarily explain why designers grow increasingly distant from players. The fundamental reason is that capital has distorted the original purpose of online game creation. Online games are now primarily positioned as continuously profitable service businesses. All work revolves around “sustained profitability” and “keeping users engaged for hundreds or thousands of hours.” The original intent—simply “creating interesting things”—has been lost.
This isn’t excusing designers. The deeper reason online games have become targets of widespread criticism indeed stems from capital’s dark forces. I merely want to highlight another danger: under the powerful allure of this dark side, isolated and outnumbered designers are collectively trending downward. We’re gradually forming a new guiding ideology for game design—one centered not on creating “fun, joyful experiences,” but on engineering successful internet traps. Worse, a significant number of top-tier designers in China already stand firmly on this dark side, fueling it further. They tirelessly contribute practical experiences, elevating them with psychological and statistical knowledge into laws and theories.
Which traits indicate this downward trend? Check if your project matches these eight signs:
- Innovation in the original game model reduced to near zero;
- Designers rarely think ahead—they mostly compare, polish, and copy;
- Single-player game elements in online games—character emotion, worldview, quest narratives, music/sound—are significantly de-emphasized;
- Players treated as mathematical models—individual feelings ignored entirely in decision-making;
- Designers generally adopt a superior mindset, showing no reverence for their “godlike” players;
- Unless required by work, designers avoid initiating direct, frequent contact with players, unwilling to let them intrude on personal time;
- Senior (numerical) designers are judged by designing highly addictive systems—and take pride in it;
- Bosses frequently say: “I only care if it makes me money.”
Please take this prediction seriously. Not only because of capital’s inherent greed, but also because China happens to be in a peculiar phase—lacking cultural foundations in single-player games, with an abnormally dominant online game market. In such an environment, sparks of short-term opportunism ignite wildfires far more easily!
Perhaps one day—
Online games will no longer be games, but conspiracies crafted from dazzling visuals and meticulously refined number systems.
Online gamers will no longer be traditional players, but indistinguishable from substance dependents.
Welcome to NHK!
In the first half of 2006, I took charge of diversifying in-game player pursuits. I studied multiple single-player games, analyzing how they increased replay value. I documented extensively special honors, bonus rewards, etc. Ultimately, I drafted a complex, lengthy table of special medals for our game. One consequence: my perception of single-player games subtly shifted. From then on, whenever encountering a new game, I’d instantly identify features designed to extend playtime post-completion. But surely I forgot—those were mere embellishments and Easter eggs, not the reason for their popularity.
——yocar
From capital’s origin to collusion with designers, only then can we say an online game has fully soured. It’s no longer ice cream made to bring joy, but a precision-guided candy-coated bomb tailored to its target. Its mission is pure and cruel—to drain every penny, even if it destroys their will and body.
Although this article emphasizes designers’ responsibility for game failures, I must pessimistically note: Despite most purely profit-driven online games being quickly exposed and torn apart; despite mature players with critical thinking and responsible media keenly sensing this danger; despite games treating players as less than human now having minimal survival chances in today’s market—
But.
Those self-proclaimed clever, seasoned, evil game designers haven’t awakened. They continue quietly brewing more conspiracies. They are true believers in “online games profit only through addiction” and “making online games is making digital opium”—dark lords endorsed by capital, battle-hardened and resolute, forming the majority. Even I am merely a junior who hasn’t yet lost all conscience to the darkness.
Early 2006, when Zhengtu was just emerging, someone initiated an internal discussion group at our company. Designers fiercely debated Zhengtu’s pay-to-win gear, NPC training bots, and other “underhanded tactics,” arguing whether Shi Yuzhu truly profited big. Initially diverse opinions existed, but eventually the debate shifted to: “Should we become as ruthless as Zhengtu?”
——yocar
Dear players, I hear your piercing cries behind me—but capital keeps seductively smiling ahead.
The Dilemma of Operations Designers
“Are you designers eating shit? Only an idiot would join such a stupid event!”
Hearing this, you might feel aggrieved. Isn’t the official calendar packed full? Today: city siege; tomorrow: lottery draw; weekends: double XP; next week: voting opens for the final round of the “XX Angel” election. Yet those insatiable forum dwellers show zero mercy, endlessly complaining that current events are repetitive and uninspired.
Online Game Development hits the nail on the head: half of online gaming is service. For designers, this translates directly to the role of operations designers. Never underestimate their impact on a game’s success or failure. If initial game designers determine who will play, later operations designers decide how many will stay.
Browsing recruitment ads across major online game companies, one easily notices that requirements for operations designers are clearly lower than for other designers. Typical requirements for operations designers: “fluent writing, stress-resistant, hardworking, with experience in one or more online games.” Requirements for game designers: “familiarity with history; expertise in fantasy literature and AD&D systems; deep understanding of competing products; skilled in writing and expression.”
It’s practically manual labor versus intellectual labor!
The initial cause of this disparity may stem from a subconscious human bias—we stubbornly believe original thinkers and creators surpass those who develop or manage afterward. In the single-player era, there was no concept of operations designers. Since then, we’ve habitually credited great game designers for a game’s success, never mentioning outstanding operations designers.
Can we apply such simplistic logic to this new phenomenon—online games?
When I first joined a game company, I served as an operations designer for an ongoing MMORPG. My first assignment was: “Write one event within three months.” Later, this evolved into “small events continuously, one major event monthly,” forcing me to create templates to meet demand. I never asked why so many events were needed. No one ever asked me my opinion on the next version.
——yocar
At least from what I know, the tasks of operations designers are often simply summarized as “don’t let players get bored.” Usually, lead designers don’t require operations staff to predict and analyze factors like target demographics, cost-benefit ratios, potential risks, or long-term impacts for each proposal. Nor do they summarize effectiveness, record outcomes, or conduct comparative analyses after events conclude. Over time, lacking effective benchmarks and systematic standards, whether an event proceeds depends solely on the decision-maker’s subjective judgment.
Operations designers, who should theoretically be the ones best understanding player needs, are in reality separated from high-level “core designers” by a chasm. They occasionally pull off beloved events under tough conditions, but due to consistently ignored input and overwhelming tedious demands, most events become severely formulaic, hasty, and irresponsible.
Meticulous about damage values of a skill, indifferent to obvious unfairness in an event. This mentality—prioritizing design over operations, coupled with “non-designer-grade” standards for operations designers—is undoubtedly a hidden time bomb for online games, especially those already operating with established player bases.
Not avoiding convention, I attempt to share some immature, subjective insights on operations design—for reference only.
Which events provoke player backlash?
- Events requiring players to spend heavily
- Events prone to cheating or score manipulation
- Events where prize allocation involves opaque processes
- Events difficult to enter, with cumbersome procedures
- Overly simplistic or crude giveaway events
- Monotonous, repetitive events with unchanged formats
- Events failing to treat all players fairly
- Events likely to spark player conflicts
Which events are popular with players?
- Free, convenient, easy-to-join events
- Events showcasing technical depth of the game
- Events promoting teamwork
- Events offering extraordinary special rewards
- Events providing brand-new game content
- Events encouraging player interaction
- Events with automatically refreshed winners
- Events allowing players to co-create the game world
- Events tied to real-world holidays
- Rich and diverse quests
- Events aligned with new game versions
- Events addressing current player interests
- Events combating malicious in-game behaviors
- Events diverging from main objectives (e.g., mini-games, quizzes)
- Gender-themed events
Which events should be approached cautiously?
- Large offline competitions with high costs
- Various mismatched sponsorship events
- Events requiring extensive manpower supervision
- Surveys receiving insufficient attention
- Poorly prepared server rental events
- Charity events linked to social welfare
- Public auditions selecting player celebrities
Why Bother Being a Designer?
After criticizing designers so much, I want to plead a little on their behalf—not to exonerate, just to add nuance.
First, acknowledge a fact: even in Western countries known for valuing creativity, programmers/team leads earn nearly 30% more than equivalent-level designers/lead designers, while artists earn about 5–10% more. This differs from advertising. In gaming, a product cannot exist without programming.
Simple logic:
Programmers need creativity AND technical skills.
Artists need creativity AND technical skills.
Designers need creativity, sharp intuition, rich experience, strong communication skills—but nobody treats these as professional expertise.
Without programmers, product = 0.
Without artists, the product will inevitably look awful.
Without designers, the product can still launch successfully.
Programmers' understanding of usability isn’t necessarily worse than designers’.
Artists' sense of visceral satisfaction isn’t necessarily inferior to designers’.
Designers say, “I deeply understand gameplay,” and programmers/artists laugh.
I admit,
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@Yocar_Feng
