Chapter 120: To Be Misunderstood Is the Fate of the Creator
Chapter 120: To Be Misunderstood Is the Fate of the Creator
Teacher Qiao began analyzing the deeper themes of Game Producer in the video.
The narrator’s voice represents the inner greed and the judgmental voices of others along the path forward.
By using first-person perspective and crafting a rich atmosphere, the game creates a powerful sense of immersion.
But through the narration, it also introduces a sense of detachment—and that tension between immersion and detachment easily pushes players into deep reflection.
Every decision the player makes simulates the mental state of a game developer.
After playing this game, you’ll understand—being a game developer is a truly thankless job.
But Teacher Qiao didn’t stop there.
He elevated the spiritual core of the game even further.
“While playing this game, I felt a powerful emotional resonance.”
“Why, though? I’ve never made a game myself.”
“Then I realized—making videos and making games actually share something in common.”
“Or rather, all cultural creators share this same mindset.”
“Loneliness.”
Then came the quote that would stick with everyone:
“To be misunderstood is the fate of the creator.”
That theme runs through the entire game.
And it also ran through the performance art surrounding the game’s release.
“Maybe this was exactly what Tengda wanted when they carefully crafted this game.”
“Maybe they already knew the game would flop in terms of sales, that it wouldn’t recoup its costs.”
“But they still hoped to achieve something else.”
“They wanted us, in this chaotic, impatient society, to slow down, and do something with intent—and think, quietly and seriously.”
“To ask ourselves: Where did we come from? And where are we going?”
“In this restless world, how should we live?”
“What is it that we’re really supposed to be chasing after?”
After watching the video, viewers across the internet fell into silence.
So… this is what it was all about?
The final questions in the video struck like heavy hammers, landing directly on the viewers’ hearts.
When Teacher Qiao had uploaded his previous video, everyone had thought he was the clown, and they were just there to enjoy the show.
Now they realized—it was completely reversed.
Teacher Qiao was the ringmaster. And they had been the clowns.
A video that appeared so mind-numbingly stupid, so riddled with red flags, had completely fooled the audience—and from that, a new viral meme, “Qiao-ism,” had been born.
All the viewers and netizens had unconsciously taken part in this massive performance piece, and the result was… disappointing.
This… was the blind herd mentality of the modern internet.
Very quickly, the video’s likes shot up, and the comments exploded in number.
“Qiao-ism” had already become a hot trend.
The moment people heard Teacher Qiao had released a new video, they had rushed in ready to meme it up and watch the circus.
So the video already had high initial visibility.
But once viewers discovered the truth behind it, their mindset shifted completely—a full 180.
And this shift was clearly reflected in the comments:
“Holy crap… this really was a massive piece of performance art?”
“Game devs these days… really playing 4D chess now?”
“I’m sorry, son. Daddy misunderstood you. Let me like and share this immediately!”
“Teacher Qiao? more like Artist Qiao!”
“I had no idea Game Producer had this much depth! I’m going back for a second playthrough!”
Of course, some people still suspected that Teacher Qiao was just trying to whitewash himself—but those voices were quickly drowned out.
Because Teacher Qiao’s explanation simply made more sense.
It aligned with the facts and fit the audience’s understanding far better.
As soon as this new video dropped, many players who had tried Game Producer but quickly quit out of boredom now decided to give it another shot and really settle in and play.
Meanwhile, others who had previously avoided the game out of distaste were also now interested—they wanted to see for themselves whether this so-called “masterpiece” that Teacher Qiao praised so highly really lived up to the hype.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Swan Lake Restaurant
A celebration dinner for Tengda Network Technology Co., Ltd.!
It had become a tradition ever since Ocean Fortress—once a game was developed and released, the team would go out for a group meal.
And as for why it was still the same restaurant?
Well, simple: it was the most expensive restaurant in all of Jingzhou City.
Pei Qian had actually wanted to fly to the capital and eat somewhere even fancier.
Unfortunately, the system wouldn’t allow it.
So he had to settle for this.
Pei Qian weaved through the crowd, red wine in hand, and quickly noticed that the team’s spirits were low.
Totally understandable.
Game Producer had launched, but was off to a cold start.
Not exactly a reason to celebrate.
It wasn’t like last time.
When Ocean Fortress was completed, the team had gone out to eat immediately, before release—no sales pressure, everyone just happily dug in.
But this time?
Game Producer had been out for three days, and both sales and reviews were well below expectations.
So, aside from Pei Qian himself, the entire team was eating like their food had lost its flavor.
“This is a company gathering! You all better liven up!”
“What’s with the long faces? Is the food here not to your liking?”
“If the mood’s this low, then we gotta eat something even more expensive! Come on, three plates of bluefin tuna per person, let’s go!”
“Veterans, set an example! You’ve eaten here before—you should know what’s actually worth ordering. I don’t want to see anyone still stuck with just ice cream!”
“And this here is Ma Yiqun, our newest team member—top of his class, intellectual type. Be sure to take good care of him, alright?”
Pei Qian was absolutely radiating energy, cheerfully moving around and playing host.
Someone didn’t want to drink?
No problem—President Pei would go around pouring wine himself.
After all, how can you turn down a drink offered by the boss?
Of course, Pei Qian’s idea of toasting had nothing to do with typical business table culture.
Unlike the toxic tradition where higher-ups force subordinates to drink to assert dominance, Pei Qian’s toasts were completely non-threatening.
It was just red wine, so nobody was getting drunk, and he didn’t pressure anyone—just a sip was fine.
The point wasn’t drinking.
The point was to get people to eat more.
The atmosphere was a little gloomy—some wine could help people relax, open up their appetites, and lift the mood.
Sure enough, after a few rounds of toasts, the atmosphere visibly improved.
Pei Qian was delighted.
He grabbed a plate of delicacies for himself and started stuffing his face.
It had been a long time since he felt this happy.
So far, everything was going perfectly:
The internet café was bleeding over 300,000 yuan a month, with no sign of turning a profit.
The short video channel had decent viewership, but he had rejected all low-end sponsorships, and so far, no high-end custom ad deals had come in—total revenue: 0.
Game Producer was sitting on lukewarm reviews and even worse sales. At this rate, it absolutely won’t recoup its development costs.
Pei Qian took another bite of food.
It tasted even sweeter.
What a great day!
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