Chu Guang Plays a Long Game

In fact, it wasn't just Fang Chang who had noticed; plenty of other players had caught on as well. The significance of this update went far beyond simply refining the economic system and folding contribution points into the honor system. Its greatest purpose was to emphasize cooperation between players! As player numbers grew, this step was inevitable. A good social system not only enhanced the player experience, but also increased user stickiness and daily active users. Even if the latter seemed somewhat redundant for a game with technology as formidable as *Wasteland OL*. So far, the players Chu Guang had screened and brought in were an ultra-hardcore bunch. They wished they could stay online twenty-four hours a day, absolutely unwilling to log off unless the mandatory cutoff forced them out. So disciplined it was as if they had no sex lives. Regardless, in the eyes of the vast majority of players, the impact of this update on player cooperation was profound. Although the devs hadn't officially rolled out a social system, many of the mechanics were already laying the groundwork for partying and guilds. The most prime example was that players could share land usage rights with friends. Five square meters of land might not be enough to do anything, but four players pooling together could scrape together twenty square meters—enough to build a compact house. If that wasn't the embryonic form of a guild, what was? "Xiao Qi, do you know what the soul of a game is?" "What is it?" Standing on the third floor of the sanatorium and watching the players bustling inside and outside the outpost base, Chu Guang's lips curled into a faint smile. "Mathematics." "Mathematics?" "Yeah. More accurately, numerical design. It's an art. Great numerical design can be gameplay in itself. In comparison, plot, graphics, and lore are merely added value granted by artistry." Baidu wasn't completely useless, after all. Once in a while, it turned up some plausible-sounding nonsense. Pausing for a moment, Chu Guang continued in an unhurried tone: "By designing the numbers properly, we can keep the contribution points and money that most ordinary, step-by-step players earn in a day within a reasonable range." "For instance, under normal circumstances, upgrading from resident to citizen takes two to three weeks. It can't take too long, or players will lose confidence, but it can't be too short either—things obtained too easily feel meaningless. And once players become citizens and turn into our core users, we'll immediately set new goals for them, like buying land." Xiao Qi tilted its camera. "Buying land? But the land price you set doesn't seem expensive, does it?" "That's right," Chu Guang nodded. "For players who've already attained citizenship, buying the land itself won't take long; it might just be a matter of opening their wallets. But after buying the land, they have to build something on it, don't they?" "Building a house takes cement and bricks. A sturdier two-story cottage also takes steel. Build a few more houses, and won't our production capacity for cement, bricks, and steel go up? I don't believe these players would want their in-game home to look as ugly as a shantytown shack. Why did citizenship only grant them five square meters? If I gave them ten or twenty square meters right away, our safe zone would quickly be overrun with useless shacks and trash." Xiao Qi: "Ah... I see." For an AI, truly grasping such human psychology seemed somewhat difficult. Chu Guang didn't mind, however. Smiling faintly, he continued: "Once the house is built, they can't just live in bare concrete, can they? Beds, tables, cabinets, rugs, curtains... later, when power is hooked up, they can add light bulbs. One way or another, they'll have to furnish it. Timber, pelts, handicrafts... with all this cycling back and forth, won't production and consumption lift each other up step by step?" Whether buying land to build a house or buying furniture, all of it requires money, right? And where does the money come from? Sorry, this game is still in closed beta and doesn't support pay-to-win microtransactions yet. If you want to make money, honestly run quests, grind dungeons, or work the fields. Using the quest system as a lever, Chu Guang could effortlessly regulate the flow of money, thereby indirectly governing the players' behavior. For example, if the shelter was short on food, raise the payouts for gathering and hunting quests. If houses needed building, raise the rewards for moving bricks, plastering walls, and firing cement. What if mutants or marauders attacked? Then it wouldn't be a question of money. Chu Guang would format it as an "in-game event," declare an "unyielding defense" war mobilization, temporarily waive part of the death penalty for players during the event, and issue them weapons. Faced with a swarm of fearless, immortal natural disasters, even mutants who knew no fear would tremble. "...When they're just about done with that phase, I'll unlock new identity ranks for them to play with. After citizen comes intermediate citizen, and the purchasable land will increase to twenty-five square meters. By then, the second perimeter wall will be built, and we won't be lacking cement, bricks, timber, or steel. Naturally, they'll build a larger house and repeat the whole cycle all over again." "If the day comes when they grow tired of building houses at their doorstep, I'll toss a noble title to these veteran players and assign them a fief slightly farther away to mess around with on their own. Weapons, ammunition, food, fuel, building materials... there's bound to be something they can produce, and whatever they can't, they can import from back home. That will conveniently give new players something to do." "As for further down the road? We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Damn it, I've only unlocked Floor B1 of the shelter myself, yet I'm already planning that far ahead for them..." Exactly how many incubation pods were stored in Shelter 404 remained an unknown; for all he knew, he might have to figure out how to manufacture the damn things himself down the line. He was certain that the almighty first-generation manager had completed some "unprecedented," magnificent technology within this shelter. And once Chu Guang uncovered all the secrets, the truth would surely be revealed to him. Still, unpredictable as the future road might be, Chu Guang was full of confidence regarding this major Alpha 0.3 update. He was playing a long game. In the first stage of his plan, the players, having all undergone nine years of compulsory education, were high-quality productive forces; skipping the agrarian era straight into industrialization posed no problem at all. And once the most basic industrialization was achieved, they would possess the prerequisite for survival on the wasteland. In the second stage, as the player count expanded, Chu Guang would try to absorb wasteland natives into the outpost base to take up basic production roles like farming, logging, and firing cement. If any possessed special talents, he would assign them specialized roles. Meanwhile, players who had upgraded to citizens could be freed from basic manual labor to invest more time in challenging and "fun" activities such as creativity, combat, and exploration—fully leveraging their ability to respawn endlessly and learn through trial and error. In the third stage, the final stage: Ideally, the wasteland natives serving as NPCs and the clone players would form a unique symbiotic social relationship. Complementing each other's strengths and keeping each other in check. If all went well, players who held real estate, property, gear, friendships, and even romance here would view *Wasteland OL* as their "Second Life," becoming defenders of order rather than its disruptors, creating a virtuous gaming ecosystem. Games like this actually existed in reality. Commonly referred to as the "server community." Of course, Chu Guang knew plans could never keep up with changes, so he had also prepared plenty of Plans B to deal with unexpected developments. But at least for now, the implementation of Stage One was going quite well. These closed beta players Chu Guang had handpicked were clearly enticed by the grand pie in the sky he had drawn for them, proving even more cooperative than he had envisioned. Xiao Qi angled its camera up toward its master standing nearby and softly reminded him, "Master, do you know? The way you're smiling right now makes you look like a villain." "A villain? Have you ever seen a villain as benevolent as me?" Chu Guang glared at the tactless little contraption. "I've liberated them from their boring daily lives and gifted them an extraordinary, extra twelve hours in their lives. All they have to give in return is a little sweat and their sleeping time. Beyond that, they lose nothing, and they don't even have to spend a single penny!" *Damn.* *Putting it like that makes it sound like a massive rip-off for me.* *I should've charged for the helmets!* But after mulling it over, Chu Guang realized he had no use for real-world money anyway. Online shopping couldn't deliver to the wasteland, and he didn't have to foot the bill for server electricity or helmet manufacturing costs. At least for now, charging money would only invite trouble. Shaking his head, Chu Guang withdrew his gaze from outside the window, turned away from Xiao Qi, and yawned. "It's getting a bit breezy on the terrace." "I'm heading back to the shelter. I'll leave things here to you." His most promising "workhorse squad" had already set off with bows, javelins, and dry rations purchased with pooled funds, presumably on a hunting trip. Chu Guang had been deliberately grooming the player named Ye Shi, not only teaching him survival experience on the wasteland and how to use Perception to track prey and sense danger, but also taking him along to successfully locate the reindeer herd's tracks. If they still came back empty-handed after all that, it would be a total waste of his mentoring. Coincidentally running low on 9mm ammunition as well, Chu Guang decided to give himself a day off. Xiao Qi bobbed its camera and obediently acknowledged the order. "Understood, Master." ... Noon arrived. In the room next to the shelter's resident hall, a raspy wail drifted out from a half-opened incubation pod. "Sob... Big sis is finally alive again!" Having sat up too eagerly just now, she had bonked her forehead on the pod lid before it fully opened. Rubbing her reddened brow, Yaya sat up inside the incubation pod. Gazing into the mirror directly across from her at her delicate skin and proud, voluptuous physique, tears welled in her eyes. Half from pain, half from excitement. Before logging on, she had been spectating on the forums for three whole days! Three days! Heaven only knew how she had survived those three sleepless nights without a helmet. Wiping away the squeezed-out tears, Yaya swiftly pulled on the clothes stored in the compartment at the head of the pod, gave the zipper a firm yank, and trotted out of the room. The lights in the resident hall were on. Having just returned from the surface, Chu Guang was sitting in front of the hall's computer, surfing the web. Hearing footsteps from next door, he casually closed the webpage he was browsing, let go of the mouse, and looked toward the player entering the hall. The little chive kept her head low, speaking in a deeply contrite tone. "Respected Lord Manager, please allow me to apologize for my reckless and imprudent actions!" Although the game dev had told her an apology was pointless, this NPC was simply too realistic. Especially when he looked over, she felt as if she wouldn't be able to forgive herself if she didn't say she was sorry. "There is no need to apologize to me. What you let down was the trust of the organization and the people still sleeping underground, waiting." Chu Guang glanced at the clothes she was wearing. If he remembered correctly, each incubation pod only came stocked with two sets of those blue uniform coats. If this gal died one more time, she'd probably have to run around in the buff. While Tengteng had crafted some warm fur coats, they were only suitable as outer layers; if nothing was worn underneath, it would be somewhat not safe for work. Particularly given this girl's... rather exceptional figure. Expressionless, Chu Guang continued, "...According to protocol, I should deduct five hundred contribution points from you, but regrettably, you have no contribution points to deduct." Lowering her head in shame, Yaya said, "I am truly sorry! I'm willing to accept any punishment!" "Punishment is meant to teach you a lesson. To survive on this wasteland, you need not just bravery, but brains. I hope you will cherish your life, and cherish this hard-won chance to venture to the surface." Chu Guang paused before continuing: "I assign you a mission: gather one hundred kilograms of food from outside, including but not limited to wild vegetables, berries, and mushrooms. Until this penal mission is completed, your status will be demoted from 'resident' to 'penal resident'. Under this status, you cannot accept normal quests, nor can you earn any rewards." "Remember, your balance is no longer sufficient to pay the death penalty. If you die again, I will repatriate you underground permanently." "Consider yourself warned." Permanent repatriation meant revocation of beta access. In the fictional game lore, all players originated from the deepest part of the shelter—a hibernation facility housing tens of thousands of frozen people—serving as an advance squad for the return to the surface. Hearing the words "permanently repatriate," Yaya shuddered and hurriedly said, "Yes, sir! I promise it will never happen again!" Moderately satisfied with her contrite attitude, Chu Guang nodded slightly. "Go." Dejected, Yaya was just about to head for the door when the manager sitting behind the desk suddenly called out to her. "Wait." Yaya stopped and turned back. "Do you have any further instructions?" "Yes. Wait a moment, I'll show you something." As he spoke, Chu Guang retrieved a metal can from a drawer, pulled the ring, and peeled back the lid. A savory aroma wafted out. Chu Guang paused upon seeing the contents. To his surprise, this aged can showed no oil separation whatsoever; its appearance looked just like it had rolled off the assembly line yesterday. *Could it have literally just been processed...?* Chu Guang's expression turned slightly odd. *Did he even need to test it for poison?* *It seemed rather unnecessary.* Having just respawned, Yaya didn't think that deeply. Her stomach was currently empty. She hadn't felt hungry before, but seeing that delicious-looking can of food, she couldn't help gulping down her saliva. Looking up at the manager, her face was a portrait of disbelief and touched gratitude. "I-Is this for me?" Chu Guang didn't answer, merely asking, "Do you want to eat it?" Yaya nodded vigorously. "I do!" Chu Guang followed up, "Does the color look weird in any way? For example... a greenish glow?" Yaya shook her head vigorously. "None at all!" When you're hungry, everything smells delicious. Her attention was completely hooked by the food, and she couldn't resist swallowing another mouthful of saliva. *This manager is too generous!* *Even though he just punished me, still, still, still—* "Alright, good to know." Chu Guang pulled the can back. "I just wanted to show you. Don't read too much into it." Yaya: "???" In the end, the little player dashed out with tears welling in her eyes. Sitting in his chair and eating from the can, Chu Guang felt that this time, he might, perhaps, truly have gone just a tiny bit too far...