So it turned out that crowdfunded indie games could be genuinely fun as well.
The Binding of Isaac was a great example—it set a very strong precedent.
As soon as the game went live, a large number of game developers tried it out immediately.
Its gameplay was simple and straightforward, very similar to the earliest Legend of Zelda titles.
You enter room after room, defeat the monsters inside, then move on to the next room for further exploration.
If your goal is simply to clear the game, anyone with a bit of gaming experience could probably do it in a few hours with some focus.
Veteran players—especially those familiar with roguelike random dungeon gameplay—might even finish a run in under an hour.
At that point, you could technically still choose to refund the game.
But merely clearing the game is only the most basic layer of The Binding of Isaac.
There's an enormous amount of depth beneath the surface.
Item synergies, character selection, and randomly generated dungeons all massively increase the game's richness.
Many players felt nothing special on their first day, thinking the game was fairly ordinary.
But as they kept playing, they began instinctively thinking about which item combinations were more efficient, and which builds felt the most satisfying.
Soon, their goals extended far beyond simply clearing the game.
They wanted smoother clears. Faster clears. Stronger runs.
Some players even wanted to see more of the story.
The story in this game is presented through extremely simple, sketch-like drawings—minimalist, yet far from shallow.
With just a few crude lines, it fully conveys the suffering a child has endured.
Online discussions soon began popping up about how much pain the protagonist Isaac had suffered.
People debated questions like: If I went through something like this, would I have the courage to keep living?
A story that many had previously dismissed began to grow increasingly compelling.
For someone like Darry—who had gone through similar experiences—the sense of immersion was even stronger.
While playing, he projected himself into the game, as if he were Isaac.
Faced with pain and suffering, there was no choice but to resist—using the game itself as a form of struggle.
As players went from long, exhausting clears to shorter and shorter ones, the game's finer details revealed themselves more clearly.
And from the very start, the game supported modding.
Takayuki didn't even need to personally maintain the game—once the player base surpassed a million, it was inevitable that some players would be overflowing with creativity.
They would naturally add things to the game that hadn't existed before.
On the very first day after launch, dozens of mods were already released.
Some enhanced the base game, some increased the number of dungeons, and others raised the difficulty.
Within a single week, the number of The Binding of Isaac mods exceeded five hundred, and high-quality mods began appearing for other players to enjoy.
Many people would start playing and unknowingly spend an entire day on it.
They wouldn't even realize how much time had passed—until suddenly thinking, Wait… why is it already dark outside?
This was even more pronounced among game developers.
On one hand, they wanted to study what made The Binding of Isaac tick.
On the other, they were simply playing it as gamers.
Kevin, the owner of a small game development studio, had recently been very confused.
Because he'd received several complaint letters from the spouses of his employees.
Every letter complained about how harsh his work demands had become—how their partners had been forced to work overtime for seven or eight consecutive days.
But he hadn't asked anyone to work overtime at all.
His small studio wasn't under much pressure.
They had a live-service mobile game that was steadily making money, and there were no new development projects planned.
It was just routine maintenance and occasional content updates—hardly the kind of workload that required overtime.
Completely baffled, Kevin stared at the letters, then called the employees named in the complaints into his office.
"Boss, you wanted to see me… huh? You're here too?"
Several employees arrived, and a few familiar faces even greeted each other casually.
"Tell me," Kevin said bluntly, "what exactly have you all been doing lately?"
"Huh?"
They all looked confused.
"I don't remember asking any of you to work overtime," Kevin continued. "But your families are all complaining that you've been working late nonstop and that they can barely talk to you anymore."
"Uh… well…"
Everyone suddenly felt awkward.
"And come to think of it," Kevin added, "our company's electricity bill has gone up slightly. It's not a big deal—I'm just curious what you've been staying late to do."
One employee finally answered honestly."Actually… we've been playing games. We don't really get many chances to play at home, so we pretended to work overtime and played at the office instead."
The others quickly nodded, admitting they'd done the same.
"Playing games?" Kevin raised an eyebrow. "What games? Our own?"
"Well… no. It's an indie game. It's actually really fun."
"An indie game…" Kevin frowned slightly. "What kind of indie game could get you all this hooked?"
"It's hard to explain… it just has this kind of magic. You keep wanting to play more. Boss, why don't you try it?"
"Me? I'll pass," Kevin said flatly. "I'm basically immune to video games at this point. Games only have so many mechanics and forms of fun."
As a game developer, he understood games far too well—and that understanding had slowly drained his interest.
Especially after becoming a developer himself, his standards had risen higher and higher.
Very few games could still excite him.
Online, people like him were often called 'digitally ED'—players who had lost their sense of fun and couldn't get excited about games anymore.
Games that could satisfy people like that were exceedingly rare.
"Boss, this one's different. This game was made by the God of Games himself—Takayuki from Gamestar Electronic Entertainment."
"Hmm? Takayuki ?" Kevin was surprised. "Why would he suddenly make an indie game?"
"That's… hard to explain right now. Just trust us and try it."
"…Well, if it's the God of Games' work…"
The employees' eyes lit up.
They'd successfully sold their boss on it.
That probably meant he wouldn't pursue the issue of them using 'overtime' as an excuse to play games at the office, right?
But Kevin added calmly,
"Even if it is made by the God of Games, that's still not an excuse for faking overtime. If you want to play games, go home and play properly. Don't make me take the blame for this—if your families complain about me again, I won't be able to handle it."