Chapter Twenty-Two: Resignation

“Resign?!” Gu Mengyan exclaimed in disbelief after hearing Chen Hao’s so-called alternative plan. “Are you serious?” It wasn’t that Gu Mengyan found the idea particularly outrageous—after all, with Chen Hao’s background, even if he spent his whole life doing nothing but being a second-generation rich kid, he would never run out of money.

He was one of those rare people born with a silver spoon, never needing to worry for a moment—someone many envied, resented, and admired. The only reason he ended up at Illusion Corporation was out of sheer curiosity about their game, Virtual World. Even the major he chose in university—Electronic Computer Engineering—was for that purpose.

Before Chen Hao went to college, he was much like other spoiled heirs, addicted to the online game Virtual World, and deeply so. Gu Mengyan remembered vividly: back when she still lived at Chen Hao’s house, they were both growing up, so for propriety’s sake, his father arranged for them to have separate rooms—there were more than enough to spare.

Gu Mengyan’s room was right across from Chen Hao’s. Late at night, whenever she got up for water or to use the bathroom, she’d see the light still on in his room. Through the crack in the door, she could faintly hear him playing. Back then, Illusion Corporation had not yet developed Virtual World into the advanced VR game it would become; it was still played on a monitor, operated by mouse and keyboard.

Even so, no other game could compare to Virtual World. Its superb visual effects alone set it apart from every other online game.

Chen Hao was already utterly captivated by it, and thanks to his gaming talent, sharp mind, and fast reflexes, he was doing quite well in the game.

Virtual World was unlike most domestic online games, which claimed to be free but were really pay-to-win. Registering an account and playing was indeed free, but if you wanted to stand out based solely on skill? Sorry, that was wishful thinking.

In their game, technical prowess or hours spent didn’t guarantee success. If you wanted to dominate, there was only one shortcut: spend money! Not that skill or time was utterly useless—they did help, but only marginally.

For example, if someone spent a thousand yuan, you’d need to invest perhaps a year or more of effort to catch up. The materials and equipment ordinary players worked hard for all year could be acquired instantly with a simple top-up. How many years does a game have? Normally, the lifespan of an online game is five to ten years.

It’s not that a game can only last ten years, but its peak vitality rarely lasts longer. Only legendary games like Warcraft or the current Virtual World can continue to shine for more than a decade.

For a typical game with a ten-year lifespan, if someone’s top-up equals your year-long grind, how could ordinary players compete?

When Chen Hao was a child, before Virtual World appeared, such games dominated the market. The industry was in a diseased state, with companies doing anything for profit—selling overpriced items that unbalanced the gameplay, empowering paying players.

Frankly, such practices were one of the main reasons games had short lifespans. Selling items that distorted game balance inevitably led to a mass exodus of regular players, who, after all, were the majority.

As ordinary players left, even the spenders lost interest. What is the essence of gaming? Beyond relaxation, it’s about satisfying players’ vanity—a chance to reign supreme in the virtual world, a feat impossible in real life.

Once the regular players left, the pay-to-win crowd felt empty—no one to compare themselves to, no superiority, no vanity satisfied. Why keep spending, why keep playing?

Of course, a handful of diehards might persist, but, as Gu Mengyan and Chen Hao saw it, those players might as well play single-player games.

There was another reason games lost vitality and players: some companies developed or licensed games purely to cash in from the very start. They’d snag a big IP license and use its fame to lure players, but the game itself was poorly made—shoddy graphics, clunky controls. Still, the IP's renown drew crowds. The game had no originality, no fresh appeal; it copied the pay-to-win model of other games, with recycled events and tasks, just reskinned and renamed.

Each update didn’t add new chapters or content—just patched bugs and, inevitably, introduced new ways to charge for power. How could such games possibly thrive?

Chen Hao could rattle off countless examples. He used to be one of those spenders and thoroughly enjoyed it.

His family’s wealth meant his pocket money was substantial. He made full use of it—every game he played began with a top-up, regardless of quality or enjoyment. As soon as he registered, he would pay.

This created a phenomenon: crowds of followers clustered around him, eager to serve. Maybe they didn’t expect Chen Hao to buy them thousands in-game, but hanging around a spender was common in online games.

Of course, not everyone around Chen Hao was a regular player; other spenders also gathered closely, forming a circle with him at the center.

But like many, Chen Hao’s interest in such games never lasted. When boredom or a lack of novelty set in, he’d promptly quit and hunt for a new conquest.

This continued until Virtual World was released. When it arrived, it was as if clouds parted for Chen Hao. This, he realized, was how a truly excellent game should be run!

Looking back, those pay-to-win items he used to buy were utterly absurd—if only Virtual World had appeared sooner.

Virtual World wasn’t entirely free, of course—it wasn’t a charity. Its pricing model was simple, just like Warcraft back in the day. New players received a certain number of free hours, giving them a chance to try the game.

Once those hours ran out, you had to pay. But the cost was far lower than in the old pay-to-win games—affordable for any wage-earner, even for kids with pocket money.

There were two payment models. One was the monthly pass: buy it, and from that day you could play as much as you wanted for a month. Once the month ended, you’d have to renew. This was ideal for players with lots of time.

The other was time-based billing: pay for a set number of hours, and play until they’re used up, then recharge. The time was cheap, but since every player was paying, Illusion Corporation’s profits were substantial.

Most importantly, Virtual World was brilliantly crafted—so outstanding that player numbers far surpassed even Warcraft at its peak.

Virtual World wasn’t just about that one paid feature. Though it sold no pay-to-win items, its artistry was breathtakingly realistic, so there were cosmetic items—clothes, hairstyles, mounts, and so on. These cost money but didn’t affect gameplay, only appearance.

With just these two advantages, Illusion Corporation rose to the pinnacle of the global online gaming industry—no other game could threaten its throne.

The release of Virtual World captivated Chen Hao, making it the game he played longest. His curiosity led him to choose Electronic Computer Engineering for his major, hoping to join Illusion Corporation after graduation and learn the secrets of its development.

But now, Chen Hao was talking about resigning? Was he joking?