Chapter 254: The Stubborn Director Lin and the Happy President Pei
It's over.
After hearing Ye Zhizhou's words, Wang Xiaobin no longer had any hopes for a bonus.
If the ratings only came from players of Blood War Anthem: Enhanced Edition, then maybe the reviews would be great—after all, the game itself was quite fair.
But the TPDb rating system also included scores from gaming media and regular netizens. Those people wouldn't actually play the game deeply; they'd just rate it based on their first impression from that "I'm a Fried Pig Trotter" commercial. If the score turned out high, that'd be a miracle.
After being acquired by President Pei, the very first game released by Shangyang Games had already face-planted hard—everyone felt utterly humiliated.
Could it be that we really are in the terminal stages of "corporate cancer"?
President Pei's every project before this had been a hit—each one both critically acclaimed and commercially successful. And yet, even a genius producer like him couldn't turn Shangyang Games around?
This was really hard to swallow.
"Everyone, please come to the conference room. I have a few words to say."
Director Lin's expression also looked a little downcast. Clearly, she'd seen the numbers too and understood how grim the current situation was.
But unlike the others, Lin Wan didn't seem crushed by disappointment. She remained calm and composed, as though she had already anticipated this outcome.
Once everyone was seated in the conference room, Lin Wan glanced around the room and said sincerely, "You've probably all seen our first-day data. It's… not good."
Silence.
Everyone in the room was all too familiar with this scene. Back when their old boss, Du Ruijie, was around, he often held these "blame-sharing + motivational" meetings whenever a game tanked after launch.
When a game bombed right out of the gate, it always meant something had gone terribly wrong somewhere—so, naturally, someone had to take the fall.
The problem with Blood War Anthem: Enhanced Edition was that the micro-client route itself was a bad idea.
That concept had been proposed by Wang Xiaobin, sure—but everyone had agreed to it in the meeting, and both Director Lin and President Pei had signed off on it.
So how exactly were they supposed to divvy up this blame?
Clearly, this meeting shouldn't dwell on "who's at fault" for long—they'd just skip through that part and move straight into the "let's work harder" phase.
Given how dire the situation was, everyone would probably be expected to work overtime and do whatever they could to turn things around.
Under their old boss Du Ruijie and lead executive designer Old Liu, this would've been the point where they all got pushed into 996 overtime hell—no extra pay, of course. After all, the company was facing a life-or-death crisis—how could you possibly ask for overtime pay at a time like that?
A few old employees sighed quietly to themselves.
After all, even though President Pei had bought the company, the structure hadn't changed at all. Now that the business was in trouble again, it really felt like they'd gone straight back to the "good old days."
Everyone mentally braced themselves for the overtime grind.
But then Lin Wan's tone shifted: "This isn't anyone's fault. None of you need to blame yourselves."
Everyone blinked in surprise.
Director Lin wasn't assigning blame?
That was good news, sure—but still, the game had failed. Someone had to take responsibility, right? Someone had to decide what to do next.
Everyone lifted their heads and listened intently.
Lin Wan continued:
"Think about it. President Pei has never made a browser game before. What he's best at are high-quality single-player titles. So why did he buy a loss-making company like Shangyang Games? And why did he insist on tackling Blood War Anthem, a notoriously pay-to-win game?"
"It's because he wanted to use Blood War Anthem to attempt something incredibly risky—to run an experiment that no one has ever tried before!"
"President Pei wants players to stop being slaves to money. He wants to change what players value—to let everyone, even those who don't spend a cent, experience the same thrill usually reserved for rich players…"
"From development to marketing, President Pei has been working toward that vision all along."
"We should've been mentally prepared for this long ago—defying the norm means risking failure."
"And I believe President Pei himself was fully prepared for that as well."
When Lin Wan had first joined Shangyang Games, she too had been puzzled by all of this—but later, she finally understood.
Hiring Zhang Zuting to film the commercial had been to attract as many browser-game players as possible;
Developing the micro-client, implementing the "Chosen One" system, and cutting back on pay-to-win features—all of that was to help cultivate healthier spending habits among browser-game players.
The motivation behind it was undeniably noble, but it also went against the core instincts of most browser-game players…
So in truth, this failure had a certain inevitability to it.
Failing like a hero—isn't shameful at all.
Lin Wan's expression was firm. "So, everyone, don't let this failure crush you. We aren't just making another cash-grab browser game. What we're doing is something noble and meaningful. Whether we succeed or fail, every one of us is a hero!"
After hearing Lin Wan's speech, everyone felt much better.
They weren't losers anymore—they were heroes defying the heavens!
Director Lin truly lived up to her reputation as someone who had worked alongside President Pei for so long. Her perspective was just different.
Compared to their old boss, Du Ruijie, the difference was like night and day.
Ye Zhizhou was also encouraged; most of his earlier disappointment had already faded away.
But morale aside, there was still the practical issue to deal with—
Blood War Anthem: Enhanced Edition wasn't making money, and that had to change.
There were really only two solutions:
First, lift the restrictions and let the whales spend freely again;
Second, expand the player base severalfold—if enough players joined and everyone bought stamina potions every day, the company would still make a profit.
The first option was definitely out of the question. After all the effort they'd put into reforming the game, they couldn't just throw it all away the moment they hit a bump in the road.
So that left only one path—find a way to expand the player base.
The meeting room grew lively as everyone began brainstorming ideas.
Some suggested changing the micro-client model, others proposed major structural overhauls—everyone was eager to contribute.
Lin Wan listened carefully but said nothing the whole time.
Finally, she shook her head.
"No. None of those ideas are good. The plan we have now is already the most complete and refined one. I believe we should stick with it."
Everyone exchanged looks.
Wasn't that… a bit stubborn?
Based on Lin Wan's earlier reasoning, her stance did make some sense.
The micro-client approach had been personally decided by President Pei—it had indeed improved the game's quality. If they were to abandon it now, it would disrupt the game's cohesion and fail to address the core issues anyway.
That was true—but still, no changes at all?
Given the game's current condition, wasn't doing nothing an even worse idea?
But Lin Wan's attitude was resolute.
"No changes. Don't worry too much these next few days—get some rest. We'll observe for one week. If the numbers still don't improve by then, I'll come up with something else."
Ye Zhizhou and Wang Xiaobin exchanged a glance. They could both tell Director Lin wasn't going to budge.
Since that was the case, no one else had much to say. After the meeting, everyone returned to their desks to carry on as usual, waiting patiently for the results a week later.
If the data improved, all would be well.
If not… then a major overhaul would be inevitable.
Back in her own office, Lin Wan rubbed her temples.
Though she had managed to boost morale in the meeting and appear confident, inside she still felt uncertain.
"In the next couple of days, I'll make some time to meet with President Pei in person—ask him for advice directly."
…
…
September 3rd, Friday.
Pei Qian was in his office, checking the TPDb website.
The website's template had been purchased, so they had quickly gotten a basic version up and running.
Though still in testing, the site was already starting to take shape—basically functional.
A dedicated team was in talks with other sites for partnerships, and some of those collaborations had already been completed.
For example, when it came to media ratings, the team needed to negotiate partnerships with various gaming outlets; for player ratings, they had to pull data from the official ESRO platform.
At the same time, the TPDb website link would also be added to each game's info page—so players could directly click through and rate the game there.
These user experience optimizations were all long-term work, not something that could be completed overnight.
At present, TPDb's traffic was still quite low. Most visitors were internal Tenda employees, along with a handful of players redirected from a few games.
Because the site's name recognition was still minimal, it hadn't even sparked much public discussion yet.
Pei Qian was currently reviewing the ratings for Blood War Anthem: Enhanced Edition.
At the moment, the game's overall score was 7.2, with a strong split between paying customers and general netizens. Paying customers rated it 9.1, while netizens only gave it a miserable 4.3.
This meant that players who actually spent money on the game were very satisfied.
As for the netizens, their low scores were almost entirely because of the Zhang Zuting commercial.
Most of those people hadn't even played the game; they'd just accidentally clicked on a pop-up ad that led to the official site, noticed the TPDb rating page, and impulsively dropped a one-star review.
Even though such ratings had low weighting in the algorithm, the total number of votes was still too small right now—so the overall score fluctuated wildly.
According to the company's system, scores between 6–7 were rated C, with bonuses worth 1% of the project's budget. Anything below 6 meant no bonus. A B rating (7–8) gave 5%. A rating (8–9) gave 10%. S rating (9+) awarded 15%.
Blood War Anthem: Enhanced Edition had a total budget of about 8 million yuan.
At a 5% bonus rate, that meant the project team would receive around 400,000 yuan in bonuses—split across the team, that worked out to less than 10,000 yuan per person.
Pei Qian felt a bit regretful about that.
Everyone had worked so hard to burn through 8 million for him, and all he could give them in return was 400,000 in bonuses—it felt a little stingy.
But TPDb's rules were already set, and even he himself couldn't bend them secretly.
"If only the rating could reach 8," he thought, "then I could spend another 400,000."
Pei Qian understood very well that the low score wasn't really Shangyang Games' fault.
The game itself was honest and well-made—worthy of a high score—but many netizens disliked the advertisement so much that they retaliated by downvoting it without ever playing, which dragged down the overall rating.
Still, there was no need to worry.
There was plenty of time.
Since TPDb still had so few users, its ratings were bound to fluctuate wildly for a while. Who knew—maybe after a bit more time, the netizen score for Blood War Anthem: Enhanced Edition might even go up.
…
Feeling slightly nervous, Lin Wan knocked on President Pei's office door.
Even though all the key design choices for the game had been approved by him personally, given the current results, she couldn't help feeling uneasy.
She had projected confidence in front of the Shangyang team, but when it came to facing President Pei himself—her confidence wavered.
"Come in," came the calm voice from inside.
Lin Wan took a deep breath, steadied herself, and stepped in.
She was here to report her decisions and hopefully gain President Pei's support.
Of course, with the game's revenue data performing so poorly, she was also mentally prepared to be held accountable.
Yet when she entered the room, to her surprise—President Pei was smiling.
A genuine, heartfelt smile.
As if he were welcoming not someone who had failed miserably—but a hero who had just accomplished a great achievement.
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