Chapter 30

After reviewing the first day’s revenue stream, Qin Xiaoyu didn’t rush to leave but decided to check the website for player feedback on the game.

It had been nearly twelve hours since launch; the first batch of players should now have a decent understanding of the game.

Thinking this, he walked back to his computer, opened the game’s official website, and silently began reading player comments.

emmm…

There were many positive reviews, with most players praising the storyline, graphics, music, and character models.

In summary, it was a rare good game.

Of course.

Where there were praises, there were also criticisms—many accused Genshin Impact of not being a truly domestic game.

All the characters looked foreign, a typical case of idolizing foreign things and looking down on one's own.

Many angry netizens had already picked up their keyboards, raging that the game’s creators were traitors aiding foreign cultural invasion.

After reading these remarks, Cai Qiu and Chen Wei turned green with rage and were about to fire back when Qin Xiaoyu stopped them.

“Brother Fish, why are you holding us back? These trolls will never become paying players—why cater to them?”

Cai Qiu had always been impatient; in his earlier small games, when netizens criticized them, he’d immediately argue back online.

Now that he had confidence, he was even less willing to tolerate it.

“You plan to argue with them on the official site? And besides, can you even keep up?” Qin Xiaoyu gave him a look and asked casually.

Having lived two lives, his mindset was far more mature and steady than Cai’s and Wei’s.

There were too many online trolls; directly engaging them wasn’t wise.

Besides,

No matter how good a game was, it couldn’t please everyone—that was normal; audiences simply differed.

For example, someone who liked MMORPGs would think only that genre was good and dismiss all others as garbage.

Someone who loved MOBA games would look down on everything else; or a player might simply be disappointed the game didn’t meet their expectations and vent a few complaints—none of that was unreasonable.

To date, no game has ever satisfied everyone.

Qin Xiaoyu didn’t believe he could reach that level either.

Ever since entering the gaming industry, his goal had been clear: make games for those who genuinely liked them.

As for trolls, let them rant—who cared whether they liked it or not?

Besides, once the Liyue map opened and the main storyline began, those accusations of cultural subservience would collapse on their own.

Why lower yourself to explain to trolls and waste your breath?

Of course.

The website had many comments; beyond the extreme praises and criticisms, the most common were those from players who played while complaining.

“Holy shit, game designer, dare you show your face? I promise I won’t curse you to death—who the hell designed this flight license test? I’ve been grinding it all afternoon and still haven’t passed!”

“Hahaha, finally found someone like me! Is the designer mentally ill? Is this even a playable game?”

“Brothers, I’m losing my mind! You can’t understand how torturous it is for an OCD player in this game—I spent the whole afternoon and night and only got 30% exploration on one tiny map?”

“I cried! Is this even a human game? As a completionist, I just wanted to collect some carrots—how the hell did collecting four carrots spawn a chest? I nearly threw my phone across the room!”

“Damn! The designer’s a sadist! Chests behind rocks, in corners, in grass, on mountaintops—fine. But I accidentally clicked a torch and got a chest too? What kind of design is this?”

“F**k! The designer’s a monster! There’s a chest right by Mondstadt’s gate—I ran back and forth dozens of times. If my classmate hadn’t reminded me, I’d never have found it. Are you trying to tell me I’m blind?”

“Don’t even talk about it, brothers! Every word brings tears—collecting chests and Vision shards isn’t something a sane person could handle…”

“And the gacha pool—don’t touch it, you’ll get addicted… Here’s a newbie’s tragic story: I couldn’t stop—I already spent two 648s!”

“Isn’t this design fun? I think it’s great—solving a puzzle to get a chest or finding a Vision gives me such a rush of accomplishment!”

“…”

As Qin Xiaoyu read through the complaints, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

So now he’s the “sadistic designer”?

Are their tolerance levels really that low?

What will you scream when future maps open with even more complex puzzles and even harder-to-find Vision shards?

Actually,

Mondstadt, as the first map at launch, was quite player-friendly—calling it “sadistic” was ridiculous.

“Brother Fish, you’ve voiced my exact thoughts—I actually wanted to call you a sadistic designer during the beta…”

Chen Wei trailed off mid-sentence, realizing he’d just revealed something.

“‘Sadistic designer’ isn’t really an insult, is it?”

Qin Xiaoyu shrugged, unfazed—he actually enjoyed seeing players rant while still being unable to put the game down.

It felt incredibly rewarding.

Having read enough feedback, Qin Xiaoyu suddenly remembered the real matter and glanced at Cai Qiu and Chen Wei.

“The game’s stabilized for now—we need to start the next phase.”

“Decide between you two who’ll stay on duty.”

“Tomorrow, go to a real estate agency and rent a bigger office—this place is no longer suitable.”

“Also, I’ll be away from the studio for a few days—you two will have to manage things alone.”

Honestly,

Cai Qiu and Chen Wei might have emotional ties to this small apartment-turned-studio, but Qin Xiaoyu felt no attachment at all.

Now that he had money, he’d move to a larger space—not just for comfort, but for the next phase of his plan.

“Brother Fish, we don’t mind working hard, but can you tell us where you’re going and for how many days?”

Cai Qiu and Chen Wei weren’t curious about his personal life—they just felt uneasy without him here to hold things together.