Horror Game Designer

Chapter 4: The Horror Game Studio That Doesnt Make Horror Games

The unrelenting rain poured heavily from the sky, drenching the earth incessantly. Yet, Gao Ming was not so frightened by this deluge as he was entwined in a complex web of emotions.

As the early morning light began to filter through the clouds, Gao Ming turned to the internet for updates and discovered that the persistent heavy rain had triggered landslides and flash flooding, disrupting road networks. It was clear that no vehicle could navigate to the tunnel that served as a crucial intersection for Hanjiang, Xinhai, and Hanhai, the three adjacent cities.

He clung to a slender thread of hope that the tunnel remained unobstructed by the landslides.

Confounded by the bizarre turn of events where his game seemed to merge with reality, Gao Ming was forced to confront and reluctantly accept this bewildering fact. He mused to himself about the futility of deleting his game designs now, but it seemed like his next step would inevitably lead him to Nightlight Game Studio.

As a part-time game designer, Gao Ming had worked closely with Nightlight Game Studio on numerous occasions, providing them with an extensive array of ideas and concepts for games with themes of mystery and murder. Now, he was resolved to erase all the game designs he had submitted, hoping that it might somehow undo the strange events unfolding around him.

Following a brief meal in the morning, Gao Ming packed the photograph of significance into his backpack, equipped himself with a raincoat, and embarked on his journey. He was known for his decisiveness and his ability to put plans into action effectively.

As he made his way, the relentless rain continued to flood the city, and oppressive clouds cast a somber hue over everything. Gao Ming managed to hail a taxi and reached the northern district of Hanhai City.

His initial plan had been to leave his current job as a psychological counselor to pursue his passion for game design full-time.

His motivation to break into the gaming industry was simple yet personal: he had been unable to find horror games that met his taste, so he decided to take the initiative to create games that he himself would enjoy.

By nine o’clock in the morning, with the help of a janitorial staff member, Gao Ming found the office of Nightlight Games.

This studio was a branch of Motu Technology, which boasted the largest gaming platform in the nation and was known for crafting suspense and thriller games. Nonetheless, they were currently experiencing a period of transition and were not at their peak performance.

Before Gao Ming even stepped through the door, he could hear the thunderous bellowing from inside. “Are you sick?! Are you all out of your minds?!” The words reverberated through the glass door.

Inside the office, several employees were hunched over their desks, their eyes locked on large monitors displaying a scene from a game. It showed a nondescript protagonist in a moment of surreal horror, watching his own death in a video during a break in a séance game that also featured his deceased wife within the eerie confines of a haunted house.

“The client wanted a groundbreaking dating simulation game! And this is what you produce in two weeks?!” Manager Gou was livid, standing beside a table, his body shaking with rage to the point where his wig threatened to depart from his scalp.

“Weren’t you the one who demanded something unlike the conventional dating games flooding the market?” The office space was cramped, and Wei Dayou was perched near the door, his posture tense as if he might sprint away at any second. He was a game planner and programmer at Nightlight Game Studio, and in addition to his work, he was known for his dedication to physical fitness. A few years prior, under the weight of pressure from higher-ups and a lack of new ideas, Wei Dayou had turned to the internet in search of innovative game concepts, which was how he had first connected with Gao Ming.

Initially, Wei Dayou was simply carrying out an assignment when, to his surprise, the game design concept submitted by Gao Ming not only stood out but also clinched the Most Creative Newcomer award in the gaming industry for that year.

Wei Dayou, a man of honest principles, didn’t hesitate to make things right. He informed the company that the celebrated design was actually Gao Ming’s brainchild, which prompted the award organizers to amend the credit. This act of integrity was a pivotal moment that catapulted Gao Ming into the limelight of the gaming world.

Amidst the chaos in the office, Manager Gou Ming was practically seething, his anger so palpable that he flung his wig onto the desk in frustration, revealing the perspiration on the sparse hairs atop his head.

“We’ve been toiling away nonstop, putting our utmost effort into this project for the past two weeks,” interjected Xia Yang, adjusting his glasses on his nose and maintaining a placid smile, seemingly unshakable by the drama unfolding around him. His eternal optimism lent him a youthful appearance; although he was thirty-seven, his demeanor could have led someone to mistake him for a man in his early twenties. Xia Yang was the chief artist in the studio, famed for his distinctive and often unfathomable art style, which had earned him accolades on an international level.

“Explain that to my feet!” Manager Gou exclaimed, striking the desk with his hand. His frustration was fueled by the studio’s precarious position. “Our clientele is dwindling as it is, and now you seem intent on scaring off the few we have left, is that it?”

“I’ve precisely incorporated innovation, engaging interactivity, and the gradual development of intimate and romantic relationships, all culminating in a portrayal of undying love, just as you specified,” Wei Dayou countered, pulling up the message that Manager Gou had previously sent him.

Manager Gou, exasperated, glared at his subordinates. “This is supposed to be romance? What have you done? It’s like a ghost tale!” His distress was palpable; the studio was at the bottom of forty-one in the company, teetering on the edge. Any further missteps and they would be disbanded and ejected from the Motu Technology conglomerate.

Manager Gou, who had been relegated to the studio by the main company of Motu Technology—allegedly due to some misstep—was passionate about his work. Despite his unprepossessing appearance, marked by a gleaming bald head and a pronounced belly, he harbored a fervent drive to succeed and a deep-seated yearning to reclaim his reputation.

“You have three days,” he declared with urgency. “Within that time, I want a conventional, marketable dating game on my desk!” Scooping up his wig and clutching his oversized thermos filled with goji berries—a testament to his personal health regimen—he stormed out, nearly bumping into Gao Ming at the entrance.

At the sight of Gao Ming, a flicker of recognition crossed Manager Gou’s face, marked by a slight twitch of his eyelids. Their paths had crossed many times, and he was well-acquainted with Gao Ming’s distinctive design approach and philosophy.

He vividly recalled his initial encounter with one of Gao Ming’s game proposals—a gripping, horror-filled synopsis that had left an indelible mark on his memory with its detailed descriptions of blood and terror.

“Gao Ming… Good morning. Since you missed the interview a couple of days ago, we proceeded to hire someone else,” Manager Gou muttered, somewhat uncomfortably avoiding eye contact. “She’ll be starting with us shortly.”

Back in the days when suspense and horror were the studio’s bread and butter, Gao Ming had been a valuable collaborator. However, with the studio now shifting its focus away from that genre, Gao Ming’s presence posed an awkward conundrum.

“I didn’t come for an interview,” Gao Ming promptly clarified, catching the flicker of discomfort in Manager Gou’s demeanor with a perceptive look. Gao Ming was inherently thoughtful, not one to trouble others without good reason, and so he promptly addressed the heart of the matter. “I’ve been facing some bizarre issues lately. I request retracting and removing all the game design drafts I’ve previously submitted.”

“Destroy them? Those drafts have the potential to be masterpieces if they’re ever brought to life!” Wei Dayou left the comfort of his desk and walked up to Gao Ming, a mix of confusion and concern in his voice. “What’s gotten into you? What sort of ordeal have you endured?”

“My days of crafting horror games may be behind me,” Gao Ming admitted, offering a reassuring pat on Wei Dayou’s shoulder. “And a bit of cautionary advice for you all—steer clear of venturing out at night for a while.”

Manager Gou Ming’s spirits, which had momentarily dipped, soared once more upon hearing Gao Ming’s change of heart. “Gao Ming, Wei Dayou mentioned you’ve left your position at the correctional facility. Why not join our ranks in the meantime? We truly value what you bring to the table; you wouldn’t even need to go through an interview process!”

“Thanks, but I’ll have to reject the offer,” Gao Ming gently rebuffed the offer.

Through persistent conversation and persuasion, Gao Ming eventually convinced Wei Dayou to unlock the file cabinet where the studio kept its archives. Together, they unearthed the plethora of game design proposals Gao Ming had contributed over time.

Given the prolonged nature of game development and the hefty initial investment required, many game concepts don’t make it off the ground and end up shelved indefinitely.

Truth be told, had the studio not been in the midst of pivoting away from horror-themed games, Gao Ming might have found it much more challenging to take back these intellectual properties.

With deliberate care, Gao Ming began to sort through the archives, categorizing his creations into five distinct levels of peril based on their content: Criminals, Rumors, Omens, Cryptic, and Strange Tales.

The ‘Criminals’ category involved games derived from actual criminal cases, where danger is purely human, hinging on puzzle-solving and evidence collection within the bounds of reality.

‘Rumors’ also drew on murder cases yet were laced with peculiar and spine-chilling narratives. However, the true peril remained human-centric despite the fictional overtones.

‘Omens’ represented a departure into the realm of the supernatural, hinting at the existence of fearsome entities and world-altering prophecies, where the threats were rooted in curses and the paranormal.

‘Cryptic’ games were a notch above, dabbling in authentic mysteries that could defy explanation.

The ‘Strange Tales’ were the most unpredictable, a domain where safety was an illusion, rules were subject to change, enigmas abounded, and the narratives were not only self-evolving but increasingly expansive, drawing in more unsuspecting individuals.

Then there was a sixth, even more dire category—’Uncontrolled Strange Tales.’ These were the narratives without hope, the darkest of Gao Ming’s creations, which he had come specifically to destroy in the hope that their bleak scenarios would never bleed into the fabric of reality.

“36 Criminals, 25 Rumors, 5 Omens, 25 Cryptic, 31 Strange Tales, 4 Uncontrolled Strange Tales… I’ve really been quite diligent over the years.” Gao Ming reflected, perhaps with a hint of pride but also a touch of solemnity, considering the strange circumstances that necessitated this purge.

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