After the celebration banquet ended, the young man returned to the company's office.
Along with him came the dozen or so partners who had fought alongside him from the very beginning.
They were the group that had come together back when they first started their venture in school.
Among everyone involved, they were probably the only ones who truly had deep feelings for this game.
As for everyone else, they treated it purely as a job.
At the celebration banquet, the young man found Myron Case.
Myron Case was in high spirits at the time and encouraged the young man to prepare for developing the next game, promising that he would invest again.
Thanks to the explosive popularity of Infinite World, Mikfo's electronic products were also selling extremely well—exactly the result Myron Case had hoped for.
In just a few days after the game's release, sales of Mikfo's PCs, consoles, and smartphones had all risen by more than ten percent.
Myron Case was happy.
The shareholders were happy.
And reflected in the stock market, Mikfo's share price rose as well.
As for the fact that the game was already showing signs of a reputation collapse—that no longer mattered.
His goal had been achieved. The game's quality would not affect his plans.
However, the young man hoped to secure additional funding to continue developing Infinite World. He wanted to add more content, at the very least fulfilling all the promises made during the original press conference. He didn't want things to end like this.
Myron Case refused.
He believed it was completely unnecessary.
Spending more money on this game would simply be a waste of time.
He had no faith that the game had any further potential.
According to estimates from his advisory team, before players fully realized the game's reputation collapse, it would likely reach around five million copies sold.
That alone was enough to be marketed as a "blockbuster success," giving Mikfo more influence—even if it came at the cost of long-term reputation.
After five million copies, refund waves would follow as word spread, but that wouldn't be easy for players.
Mikfo didn't offer consumer-friendly refund policies like Battle.net.
They only allowed refunds within one hour of playtime, and if more than three days had passed since purchase, refunds were completely closed.
This skirted industry standards and some legal gray areas, but unless players organized a class-action lawsuit, there was little they could do.
Besides, the game itself was secondary.
The real profit came from selling the hardware.
That was the real success.
Myron Case advised the young man to prepare a new game pitch—one that could continue using the "infinite world" gimmick.
This time, he suggested crafting a "redemption arc" narrative for the young developer, and had already arranged a dedicated PR team to shape his public image.
In business, anything goes—as long as the goal is achieved, it's considered success.
From beginning to end, Myron Case still saw games as nothing more than tools for making money.
No emotion involved.
Except for Tetris—but that wasn't his, which annoyed him greatly.
"I've made my decision. I want to leave Mikfo. Infinite World has already met the original investment requirements. We can take the game and look for another investor."
"But… who would take us?" someone asked. "What we're doing kind of looks like a bunch of homeless dogs."
The room fell silent.
"Homeless dogs."
The phrase sounded painfully harsh.
If they stayed at Mikfo, it wouldn't actually be that bad. At this point, it was clear that some people no longer wanted to leave.
The young man could see it in their expressions—several of them had already decided they wanted to stay.
After all, Mikfo's compensation and benefits were quite good.
If they left now, there was no guarantee they'd find something comparable in the future.
"I already have a target company," the young man said. "Gamestar Electronic Entertainment."
"Gamestar Electronic Entertainment? That's the strongest game company out there. Would they really take in a game that another company has already squeezed dry?"
The young man fell silent.
Right…In a few days, the whole world would probably know how bad this game really was. Who would be willing to take it over then?
"Even so, I have to try," he finally said. "If I don't, I'll never be able to accept it."
In the end, he made up his mind.
He would leave with his work.
At this moment, he was more grateful than ever that he hadn't signed a full copyright buyout agreement with Mikfo—otherwise, he wouldn't even have the chance to walk away.
But just as his companions had said, there might truly be no one willing to take them in.
In the worst case, it would all amount to nothing.
He would lose a high-quality job at Mikfo, and his game would still remain unfinished.
In the end, he asked everyone to vote.
Those who wanted to stay, he wouldn't force.
Those willing to leave with him would prepare to resign the next day.
The next day—Infinite World's fourth day after release—the game's daily sales plummeted to five hundred thousand copies.
Players were finally starting to realize the truth.
They discovered that the game was terrible.
It had nothing but the hollow "infinite world" gimmick, with no real fun to be found.
If you focused on the main storyline, you could clear it in five or six hours.
After that, there was only emptiness.
Endless warping between different-looking planets, watching bizarre creatures that completely violated normal human aesthetics scurry around.
The game's optimization was also poor.
The young team lacked experience, and Mikfo had offered little help—especially since many of Mikfo's previous games had never been well-optimized to begin with.
Bugs were everywhere.
Player dissatisfaction grew louder by the hour.
And what did Mikfo do?
They chose silence.
A cold, passive response.
One piece of news, however, did catch people's attention:
The producer of Infinite World had resigned from Mikfo, announcing that once the six-month exclusivity period ended, he would reclaim the game's rights and do his best to properly maintain it.
But players weren't buying it.
Their anger was intense.
They demanded an explanation—whether from Mikfo or from the producer himself.
What kind of trash was this, to be marketed as a "once-in-a-generation masterpiece"? It was outrageous.
They should never have trusted Mikfo in the first place.
Games made by Mikfo couldn't even begin to compare to those from Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.
Unfortunately, there was only one Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.
One company alone couldn't possibly satisfy all players.
If only this world had more companies like Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.