Inside the PixelPioneers Game Office, John stood beside the main projector, detailing his latest design concepts with animated gestures.
Meanwhile, over on Shark TV, Louis was entering another day of streaming Getting Over It. Looking at the camera, he had the hollow, far-off stare of a man whose soul was actively fleeing his body.
How many times had he painstakingly dragged himself up the mountain, only to land right back in the garbage-chilled snake trail? How many times had he swung that accursed sledgehammer a fraction of an inch off, sending his cauldron-bound avatar plummeting off Snake Island to the serene, mocking chords of the Assassin's Creed soundtrack?
Eight hours into today's live stream, he had returned home. He was back to square one. Again.
When he had first cleared the Junk Mountain hours ago, he foolishly believed that falling from higher up might catch him on a lower ledge. He quickly learned that the universe, or rather, John's game design, offered no such mercy. Countless hidden traps, countless brutal geometry pits, and countless trips right back to the start!
"How can a game like this exist?! How can anyone make something like this?!" Louis rocked back and forth in his gaming chair, chanting the question like a desperate mantra.
In the chat, viewers were torn between uncontrollable laughter and profound pity, filling the screen with heavy sighs and jokes:
"Welp, send another streamer to the asylum."
"This isn't a game, it's concentrated malice. Is Mr. John secretly trying to ruin our mental health?
"Poor Brother Louis... played for a full eight hours just to end up right where he started."
"Don't remind him! You're going to break what's left of his mind."
While the chat bantered, a wave of despair was quietly sweeping across the entire streaming scene. Ordinary players could turn the game off and walk away, but streamers, trapped by their audience's dark amusement, were forced to endure an endless nightmarish loop of precision platforming and sliding hammers.
Back in the PixelPioneers meeting room, the atmosphere was equally tense. Projected on the wall was the title of their new project: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice. Beside it was a slide summarizing the recent public reception of Jump King and Getting Over It.
Looking at the new project details, team members like Koch and Evelien exchanged terrified glances. They couldn't help but mourn for the global gaming community. This wasn't just a challenge; it was a calculated campaign of psychological warfare.
Hardcore action mechanics, brutal boss damage formulas that could easily one-shot a character, and multi-phase boss fight behavior that shifted unpredictably mid-combat. This game was explicitly built to beat players to a pulp.
Even though development had barely begun, John's breakdown of the core mechanics was enough to give everyone a crystal-clear realization: their boss was an absolute sadist.
"High-stakes, adrenaline-fueled combat; crisp, responsive deflections; and absolute precision," John explained, pacing in front of the screen. "The key point to understand here is that the player's true enemy isn't the boss on screen; it's themselves. Overcoming your own limits, pushing past your own frustration, that is the core experience."
He paused, glancing around at the pale faces in the room, immediately reading their thoughts.
Overcoming your limits? The true enemy is yourself? Koch swallowed hard. Didn't you say the exact same marketing nonsense when we launched Jump King and Getting Over It?! Who are you trying to fool?!
Remembering the ocean of tears currently flooding social media, everyone in the room silently pursed their lips. Suffering is suffering, no matter how poetically you wrap it up.
"Regarding NPC and enemy AI," John continued, tapping the whiteboard, "we want them to be predictable, not stupid, but mechanically rigid. Like a muscle-brained fighter who follows a set pattern."
He turned to Koch, who was leading core mechanical development. "In a game like Sekiro, making boss AI overly adaptive or omniscient would ruin the experience. The difficulty shouldn't feel unfair or random; it must have a distinct rhythm and pattern that players can read."
John leaned on the podium, his voice taking on a more analytical weight. "An ingenious boss design allows players to study the attack patterns step by step, learn the rhythm, and eventually deliver that final, satisfying execution. That sense of personal triumph, the rush of genuine mastery, is something you can never get from just watching a streamer or a video guide. Viewers only see someone else suffering or succeeding. They don't get the actual dopamine hit of conquering the challenge themselves."
He looked at the team intently. "That distinction is why games like Sekiro or Dark Souls would become genre-defining classics rather than temporary fads. The suffering is just the wrapper; the growth is the core. Without that balance, players wouldn't stick around."
He brought up a chart showing recent platform trends. "Take Jump King and Getting Over It. They created a massive surge in traffic, staying at the top of the game rankings for days. Even with major announcements from giants like Ansoft and Essence about their upcoming AAA showcases, our two games kept the spotlight."
"But let's be honest, if those games hadn't been free, sales would have been modest despite the PixelPioneers brand power. Their design appeals primarily to hardcore completionists and masochists because the sunk cost of failure is ridiculously high. Losing seven hours of progress over a single millimeter slip isn't for everyone."
John clicked to the next slide, showing combat mechanics. "In contrast, titles with checkpoint systems like Dark Souls or Sekiro mitigate that soul-crushing loss by letting players recover their resources or only penalty-draining a portion upon death. That's why we have to be meticulous here. A soulslike game cannot just copy the surface difficulty; it has to capture the underlying balance."
He scanned the room, driving the point home. "In the industry, plenty of studios try to replicate the 'soulslike' feel, but how many actually get it right? If a boss randomly changes its attack patterns without clear cues or breaks its own rules mid-fight just to kill the player, it destroys the loop of learning and execution. If an AI boss reads input frame-by-frame and pulls out an unblockable ultimate move out of nowhere, players won't feel challenged; they'll just quit."
Koch raised a hand, looking visibly anxious. "Mr. John... is this default difficulty really going to work? If we don't offer a lower difficulty setting and force everyone into this hardcore nightmare right off the bat, won't it push casual players away? No other studio on the market dares to launch a mainstream title with this level of baseline punishment."
John smiled, a bright, strangely innocent smile that sent a collective shiver down the spines of everyone present.
"That's precisely why we're doing it," John replied smoothly. "Did the very first video games come with easy modes? Innovation always feels risky until it sets the new standard."
He leaned in slightly, his eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated mischief. "Besides... watching players suffer is half the fun."
Looking at John's beaming face, Koch and the rest of the developers shuddered again, wrapping their jackets a little tighter. Autumn had barely started, but inside the room, it felt like absolute zero.