Chapter 149: A Problem No One Has Ever Solved!
Chapter 149: A Problem No One Has Ever Solved!
These two games were already old and bloated, with layers upon layers of legacy issues—some of which were so deeply rooted, it was hard to even know where to begin.
Thankfully, President Pei had provided a clear entry point: the monetization system!
Cut all the monetization features, leaving only one.
This was an incredibly daunting task. Even with a conservative estimate, the two games easily had dozens of monetization points.
From large-scale recharge events to the everyday purchase of minor items, and various monetization hooks embedded within the upgrade and progression systems—
Basically, if there was a place to slap on a paywall, it had been used.
To remove all of that wasn’t as simple as just disabling the in-game shop.
Because these monetization points were intricately tied to the game’s entire numerical framework.
To ensure that players who spent 500 yuan could dominate those who spent 100 yuan, and 100 yuan payers could crush the 30 yuan ones—well, that required meticulous planning of value scaling for each spending tier.
These spending-based benefits were directly linked to the game’s combat power system, which in turn defined the game’s internal ecosystem, similar to how there are herbivores and carnivores in nature.
In short, this was a numbers problem.
And that’s exactly why in the domestic game industry, numerical designers ranked just below lead executive designers in importance—because the experience of a monetized game lives and dies by its numbers.
Altering the monetization model meant overhauling the numerical system, and that meant the former method of segmenting the player base by spending would need to be replaced by something else.
But if that new method failed and the numbers fell apart, it could completely collapse the in-game ecosystem—and not even a god could salvage it.
It was just like what happened before with Blood War Anthem, where backlash exploded and revenue plummeted—all because Old Liu priced a sword too high. A single numerical misstep had catastrophic consequences.
Ye Zhizhou mulled it over for a long time and still felt like he was reaching beyond his abilities.
He had some ideas, sure—but he wasn’t confident in whether they could actually work.
So he printed out his draft and went to discuss it with Wang Xiaobin.
Wang Xiaobin, a veteran numerical designer, furrowed his brow upon reading Ye Zhizhou’s proposal.
This kind of overhaul wasn’t something to be taken lightly.
If this had been under the old system—whether it was Old Liu, Wang Xiaobin himself, or any other experienced planner—they would have outright rejected Ye Zhizhou’s plan without hesitation.
But now? Ye Zhizhou was the lead executive designer. No one had the authority to veto his ideas.
More importantly, this directive to remove all monetization points? Came directly from President Pei.
That meant they had no choice. No matter how difficult, they had to make it happen. If the conditions didn’t exist—they’d create them.
Wang Xiaobin sighed.
“This really feels like a reckless move… but since President Pei proposed it, there must be a deeper purpose behind it. I’ll do my best to make it work.”
Simply removing all the monetization points from the game was equivalent to redoing the majority of the game's content from scratch.
This wasn’t like Ocean Fortress, which was a competitive FPS.
Even though Ocean Fortress had premium weapons like the Fire Qilin, it was still fundamentally a skill-based game. No matter how rich a player was, they couldn’t win against two equally skilled opponents just by paying more.
But Blood War Anthem was a classic pay-to-win game. For a whale (big spender), one-versus-two wasn’t even a challenge—one-versus-twenty was their reality. The imbalance was intentional and absolute.
The entire design and content structure of Blood War Anthem was built upon this kind of imbalance.
If all monetization points were removed, then the game would need a new metric to differentiate player power levels.
If not money, then what?
Time or luck.
But shifting the game to one that’s purely time-based? That would hand control over to grinding maniacs and botting studios.
Sure, switching to a subscription (time-card) model might be viable—but it would clash completely with Blood War Anthem’s existing design. Turning it into a time-card game would be no different than building a new game from scratch. Clearly unrealistic, and not aligned with President Pei’s intent.
What about turning it into a luck-based game? That would just crown the luckiest players—those blessed by the RNG gods.
But that might be even worse than the old model. It’d still be unbalanced, and most players’ experiences wouldn’t improve at all.
Ye Zhizhou and Wang Xiaobin practically racked their brains over this.
It was a problem that, in the domestic gaming industry, no one had ever solved.
In fact, no one even wanted to solve it.
Because removing monetization meant cutting off revenue. Even if some lead executive designer had a brain fart and tried to go this route, their boss would likely slap them awake on the spot.
Pay-to-win games were profitable, and doing just fine. Who would voluntarily mess with that? Who would want to think about alternatives?
And yet, the more Ye Zhizhou and Wang Xiaobin pondered, the more they felt that this was a meaningful challenge.
If they could figure out even a basic, incomplete solution, it would be the first of its kind in the entire country.
As expected, even a casual line from President Pei concealed such profound intent!
Ye Zhizhou came up with several proposals, but each one was shot down by Wang Xiaobin from a numerical balance perspective.
Still, Ye Zhizhou didn’t get discouraged.
Until finally—he slapped his forehead.
“Brother Wang, I’ve got a new idea.”
“What if… everyone had the chance to play the role of a whale? What do you think?”
Wang Xiaobin froze for a second. “Play the role of a whale? What do you mean?”
Ye Zhizhou, excited, began scribbling on paper as he explained:
“Basically, the core issue we’ve been tangled up in this whole time is player experience, right?”
“I think we can break it down into three main types of experience.”
“First is the whale. They spend the most money, have the highest power, and enjoy the thrill of mowing down weaker enemies one-versus-ten.”
“Second is the organizer. These players have time and energy, they’re active, and they manage guilds and bring people together. Their fun comes from commanding others and being in control.”
“The third type,” Ye Zhizhou continued, “is the average player. They can’t solo ten enemies like the whales, and they’re not organizers either. But on one hand, these players can gradually transition into the other two roles, and on the other hand, they can still benefit from following the whales—like getting participation rewards when their faction wins a national war.”
“Right now, the distinction between these three types of experiences is based on money and time.”
“Time doesn’t need to change, so the roles of organizer and average player remain the same. The only one that needs to change is the whale, because we’ve removed the monetization—those players have nowhere to spend anymore.”
“So… what if we let random players in the Blood War Anthem experience what it’s like to be a whale? Wouldn’t that solve it?”
Wang Xiaobin was still a bit confused.
Ye Zhizhou explained further, “With all the monetization gone, players’ combat power will generally hover around the same level. Those with better luck or more time will have a slight edge, but nothing extreme.”
“But during national wars, we could randomly select a few players to temporarily become ‘whales’, giving them the kind of powerful stats that only big spenders used to enjoy.”
“To make sure everyone has a chance, we implement a ‘Chosen One System’ for each player. It starts at 0%, and gradually increases over time.”
“If a player isn’t selected, their probability goes up next time; if they are selected, it resets.”
“The rate of increase can be tied to factors like activity level and in-game contributions. This incentivizes players to log in and participate in events.”
“This way, we preserve the original player ecosystem, while letting everyone take turns experiencing the fun that used to be reserved for whales. At the same time, we meet President Pei’s directive of removing nearly all monetization!”
“Three birds with one stone!”
Wang Xiaobin fell into deep thought.
From a theoretical standpoint, Ye Zhizhou’s concept could work.
It was risky, sure—unorthodox, even shocking.
But if the goal was to eliminate all monetization points without letting the game’s numerical systems and player ecology fall apart, this might actually be a viable solution.
Wang Xiaobin nodded. “Alright, let’s give it a shot. I’ll start drafting the numerical model. You iron out the specifics of the rules. Actually, let’s call a quick meeting and walk everyone through the idea.”
Ye Zhizhou nodded, swiftly organizing the thoughts in his mind.
Then he stood up and declared, “Everyone, let’s head to the meeting room. We’ve got some important game changes to go over.”
For some reason, Ye Zhizhou suddenly felt full of confidence.
It was like, all of a sudden—he had truly stepped into the role of a lead executive designer.
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