Episode 001. A Game Company with Zero Stress

“Let’s make a game together!”

“No.”

After class ended, in an empty classroom, Sang-hyuk tried to persuade Min-jun to make a game with him. Min-jun, however, refused without hesitation.

After all, the very reason they had reincarnated was because they both worked themselves to death in their past lives while trying to make games at a soul-crushing company.

Min-jun had no intention of walking down that hellish road again.

‘He should feel the same way, right?’

But that night, Sang-hyuk—who had also died from overwork in Kuro—was acting strangely. Since their return to the past, he seemed even more passionate about making games than before.

Min-jun couldn’t understand it.

“Dude, you died the same night I did. And you wanna go back to that cursed industry? Don’t you even flinch thinking about it?”

“Well, if we were gonna live exactly the same way, then of course I wouldn’t want to go back.”

“Then?”

“This time we’ve got knowledge from the future. So maybe—just maybe—we can finally make a proper game.”

Min-jun patted Sang-hyuk’s shoulder and said:

“I support your dreams. Now, adios.”

He turned to leave, but Sang-hyuk clung to his leg.

“Uwoooah!! Let’s make a game together! I’m not doing it without youuuu!”

“Argh! Let go, you maniac! Release me this instant!”

“My lady, where do you think you’re going?! Abandon me, and you’ll get cursed with chronic athlete’s foot within ten miles!”

In the end, since Sang-hyuk wouldn’t let go, Min-jun sat back down with a sigh.

That’s when Sang-hyuk started bargaining.

“I’ll do your homework for the next three years.”

“No. I’ll do it myself and get into Seoul National University.”

“I’ll give you my PlayStation!”

“PS1? What am I supposed to do with that fossil?”

“It’s the one that came out last year!”

“Did you forget PS5 exists in the future?”

“I’ll buy you bread every day for three years!”

“I can buy my own bread.”

When all his offers failed, Sang-hyuk sat back down, deflated.

Feeling a little sorry for him, Min-jun finally asked,

“Why do you even need me? You’re the planner. You’ve got all your memories from before. Just join a game company and succeed.”

Sang-hyuk looked straight at him.

“You said your biggest regret was choosing the wrong career, right? That you’d never go back to the gaming industry.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, my regret… is that we never got to make our game together.”

Min-jun went silent. Because that… was his regret too.

“Still,” he said, “that industry’s a mess. Too dirty to go back.”

That’s when Sang-hyuk’s eyes lit up.

“Then what if it’s not that industry?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how Korean game companies are. Deadlines that bend to company schedules. Office politics. Endless tug-of-wars between devs and business teams.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Then let’s just… make our own company.”

“Make… a company?”

“Exactly! We make games, earn money, and build our own studio!”

Now that caught Min-jun’s attention.

“What kind of company?”

“One that never forces overtime! A company where the release date depends on when the game is actually ready! No more changing systems just to chase revenue!”

Sang-hyuk grinned.

“Ever heard of a company called Supercell?”

“Sure. They made millions from casual mobile games.”

“They’ve got small, independent teams that make whatever they want. If a project fails, they hold a presentation called ‘How We Failed’—and then pop champagne to celebrate!”

“Celebrate… failure?”

“Yeah. Because failure teaches you something. And the real reason is to make sure developers don’t feel crushed by it.”

“That’s… actually kinda cool.”

Seeing Min-jun intrigued, Sang-hyuk got even more excited.

He talked about foreign studios that had creative cultures—teams free to move, devs respected like artists.

“One company even has desks on wheels, so if someone doesn’t like their project, they just unplug their PC and roll over to another team.”

“Wait, does anything ever get finished like that?”

“Not really. Games there take forever.”

“And the company’s fine with that?”

“Well, when your platform’s Steam, you don’t exactly need to worry about cash flow.”

Using those examples, Sang-hyuk began describing his dream company—an ideal workplace for game developers.

As Min-jun listened, asking questions and poking holes in the plan, the idea slowly evolved into something concrete.

A company where people could “make games while having fun.”

A company with zero stress.

“A company whose motto is ‘Stress Zero.’”

As an employee, Min-jun couldn’t imagine anything better.

Except for one thing.

“Hey, Sang-hyuk.”

“Yeah?”

“Everything you said sounds great. I’d love to work somewhere like that.”

“Then you’ll join me?”

“No. Because your plan has one fatal flaw.”

“What flaw?!”

“If everyone’s playing around… who’s making money?”

There’s no such thing as completely stress-free work. Especially not when someone’s paying you for it.

Min-jun’s point was brutally realistic.

“You’d need to be a second-generation chaebol with ten skyscrapers in Gangnam to afford that. You and I? We’re broke. How do we even start?”

“By making a game and earning money!”

“Sure. But here’s the problem—it’s 1998. PCs are just starting to spread. StarCraft is the big hit right now. But that one game took a whole team of experts years to make.”

“So?”

“It’s just you and me. You think we can make something to rival StarCraft?”

Min-jun’s logic was sound. But Sang-hyuk smiled.

“You’re asking the wrong question. It’s not ‘who do we beat?’”

“It’s ‘what can we make?’”

He pulled out a notebook and drew a little blocky character.

“That’s… a Minecraft character?”

“Yep. When did Minecraft come out again?”

“No idea.”

“Beta was in 2009. That same year, Dragon Age: Origins and Uncharted 2 won GOTY. Was Minecraft better in graphics than Uncharted?”

“No way… oh!”

Now Min-jun understood.

“But it’s 1998! PCs can’t even run Minecraft yet!”

“I’m not saying we make Minecraft. I’m saying, like Minecraft, we make a game that doesn’t need great graphics—just something with real fun.”

Min-jun thought for a moment.

If Sang-hyuk truly had a game idea that could succeed in 1998—a game simple enough for two people to make—then maybe, just maybe, this could work.

But memories of his previous life haunted him.
He’d followed Sang-hyuk’s enthusiasm once before and ended up dying of overwork twenty-five years later.

Something about this felt exactly the same.

Still, rejecting him outright felt wrong. The idea was too sweet.

So Min-jun decided to make a deal.

“Alright, here’s the deal.”

“Name it.”

“Bring me a game concept that two people could actually make.”

“Game concept?”

“Yeah. If it’s a truly good idea, it should sound fun even on paper. Before I’m a programmer, I’m a gamer. So convince me—with a plan.”

Min-jun had seen plenty of Sang-hyuk’s design docs before, but those were always partial—feature-level plans. He’d never seen an original concept from scratch.

And in 1998—when PCs were weak and the internet wasn’t even widespread—creating a revolutionary game with just two people sounded nearly impossible.

“That’s…”

“Come on. You’ll have to make a plan anyway. If we want that dream company, we’ll need a hit first. Let’s start there.”

Before Sang-hyuk could reply, Min-jun added more conditions.

“It has to run on an average 1998 PC. It has to be way more fun than the average game right now. And it has to be something two people can finish in three months.”

“If you can meet those three conditions, I’ll join you.”

Otherwise, there was no point.

Min-jun wanted to see if Sang-hyuk could even begin such a plan.

“You made me work myself to death last time, so if you want me to trust you again, prove it.”

He thought, If I make the conditions impossible, maybe he’ll finally give up. That’d be best for both of us.

But what Min-jun didn’t know was that Sang-hyuk already had a concrete game idea in mind.

Sang-hyuk’s eyes lit up. He grabbed Min-jun’s hand tightly.

“You mean it? If I bring you a plan that meets those conditions, you’ll join?”

“Wait, what—”

“Promise?”

Then, without waiting for an answer, Sang-hyuk grabbed his bag and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Sang-hyuk turned back with the brightest smile Min-jun had ever seen—brighter than anything in their past life or this new one.

“To write the game plan!”