#002. Pikachu Volleyball
“You… you’re seriously insane…”
Exactly three days later, Sanghyuk brought Minjun the game proposal Minjun had demanded.
Minjun had already expected that Sanghyuk would bring a decent idea—the guy always acted too confident for no reason.
What he didn’t expect was that Sanghyuk would skip three full days of school just to write the proposal.
So when Sanghyuk, dark circles under his eyes, finally appeared in class after sixth period and handed him a notebook, Minjun could only click his tongue and accept it.
“Is this it?”
“Just read it first. See if it’s actually fun, if we can make it in three months, and if it’ll run well on the average 1998 PC specs.”
At Sanghyuk’s unusually serious tone, Minjun opened the notebook.
Inside were hand-drawn sketches—rough but earnest—and neatly written notes.
“Why hand-drawn?”
“No printer at home.”
Of course. The lunatic didn’t have a printer, so he’d drawn everything in a notebook.
The result looked like doodles in the margins of a school note.
But Minjun still flipped through it with a serious face.
Each time he turned a page—flutter, flutter—Sanghyuk swallowed nervously.
By the time Minjun had read through all thirty pages, Sanghyuk couldn’t take it anymore.
“Well? What do you think?”
“…”
Minjun didn’t answer right away.
The title on the cover was “Extreme Volleyball.”
It was an upgraded version of Pikachu Volleyball, the game every middle and high schooler used to play in the school computer lab.
“First off, it meets the low-spec requirement.”
But just remaking Pikachu Volleyball wouldn’t mean much.
The real brilliance was in how it tried to improve upon it.
“So he’s using future knowledge… like this?”
Sanghyuk had applied 2020s-style game systems to a 1998 title.
It was fresh—surprisingly good, even.
The proposal was rough but overflowing with ideas, and Minjun couldn’t find a single reason to reject it.
“Not bad… actually… pretty good.”
“What?! Really?! So you’re in, right?!”
“Wait—hold on a sec—”
“You’re not backing out now, are you?”
Minjun began to sweat. Sure, he had promised, but diving into game dev again wasn’t an easy decision.
I’ve got to find something to nitpick…
He sighed. “Alright. Explain your plan to me first.”
“Easy. As you saw, the base is Pikachu Volleyball.”
Minjun nodded. He remembered that game vividly—
a fan-made 1997 Japanese project that had taken Korean school labs by storm.
Two Pichu, a ball, and a net—simple yet addictive.
“Right, right.”
“So, it runs on low-end PCs from 1998, and it’s simple enough for two people to make. That’s our foundation.”
“Okay, that part makes sense. But you’re not just copying Pikachu Volleyball, right?”
“Of course not. That’d be pointless.”
Sanghyuk grabbed a piece of chalk and began sketching on the blackboard.
“The core of the remake is growth and unlocks. Around 2020, even arcade fighting games had personal profile systems, right?”
“Yeah—those save cards players carried around.”
“In Extreme Volleyball, characters will unlock based on your match history, and your progress will save on a floppy disk. So everyone can carry their save and battle their friends.”
Minjun’s eyes widened. It wasn’t a complex idea, but for 1998, it was brilliantly fresh.
“After every match, something tangible remains. Players naturally start competing—ranking themselves based on performance.”
“And the players are… middle and high schoolers nationwide?”
“Exactly.”
Not a bad idea at all.
Pichu Volleyball had already been a huge hit because of its simplicity.
Adding growth and unlocks would make it even more addictive.
“You’re not worried about abuse? Like people intentionally losing to unlock stuff?”
“I’m not preventing it.”
“What? You’re not?”
“Think about it. If Street Fighter had that system, could you stop someone from inserting two coins and playing both sides just to grind?”
“…No.”
“Exactly. So let them. If they want to grind, let them grind—it’s still gameplay.”
“What about copying saves?”
“Let them copy. Sharing saves will be part of the nostalgia.”
“And game piracy?”
“You think we can make something like Denuvo and still fit it on a floppy disk?”
“…No.”
“Then forget about it.”
“Then how do we make money?”
“We don’t. Not with this one.”
“What?!”
Minjun stared, baffled. Weren’t they supposed to start a company?
Sanghyuk sighed.
“Our target audience is middle and high schoolers in 1998. You think they’ll buy a game?”
He wasn’t wrong. Back then, floppy disk trading was the culture.
“Still, we could sell a few copies maybe?”
“No. It’s better to be known as ‘that amazing free game.’”
“Imagine every school computer lab running our game. Kids trading floppy disks, comparing characters, challenging each other.
Years later, they’ll remember—‘That volleyball game we used to play… that was fun.’”
Sanghyuk smiled, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“It’s just the warm-up. First we build a reputation—make something everyone knows. Once people trust our games, then we’ll sell.”
“So the first step is fame, not profit?”
“Exactly. If even one more person enjoys what we make, it’s worth it. There’ll always be more chances to make money.”
His conviction shut Minjun up. The plan wasn’t bad.
And honestly, after years of soulless contract work, the idea of seeing people actually play his game felt… good.
Finally, Minjun said:
“Alright.”
“What?”
“I said alright. You met my conditions, so I’ll meet yours. That was the deal.”
“So… you mean—”
“I’ll handle the coding.”
For a second, Sanghyuk just stared, blank from exhaustion.
Then—
“YEEEEESSSSSS!!!”
He jumped up and shouted like he’d just scored the winning goal, running around the classroom.
Minjun chuckled.
Man, this guy really loves games.
And truthfully, so did he.
He clenched his fist around the notebook.
“Time to turn this messy idea into a real game.”
High schoolers didn’t have much free time.
Most of the day was eaten by classes.
So even though Minjun had agreed, progress was slow.
Still, being the kind of coder who couldn’t sleep until a problem was solved, he worked late into the night.
And unlike his old corporate grind, this felt different.
This was his game.
Meanwhile, Sanghyuk couldn’t help yet—he was being punished for skipping school.
One week of detention, writing apology letters in the teachers’ office.
By the time he returned, Minjun had already built an alpha version—in just a week.
“You made an alpha in a week? You’re insane.”
Minjun, now sporting worse dark circles than Sanghyuk, smirked.
“Hey, I’m in a teenager’s body again. A little all-nighter won’t kill me.”
“Shouldn’t you treasure your youth more?”
“Shut up and play, Mr. Designer.”
Sanghyuk laughed and sat down.
The alpha was crude—placeholder shapes for sprites—but it worked. Smoothly, even.
“Wow, this actually runs well.”
“I had the Pikachu Volleyball code as reference. Borrowed what I needed.”
Sanghyuk spent half an hour testing everything.
Even with no polish, the foundation was solid.
“So, what do you think?”
“From my perspective now?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s… rough.”
Of course it was. Compared to modern games, it looked primitive.
“But for this era?”
Sanghyuk grinned and gave a thumbs up.
“It’s freaking awesome!”
Minjun smiled back. He felt it too—the thrill of creating something ahead of its time.
Once the graphics were in, it would be a hit.
“Alright, Sanghyuk.”
“Yeah?”
Minjun patted his shoulder.
“I pulled an all-nighter for a week to make this much. Now it’s your turn.”
He smirked.
“Start drawing those sprites.”
Now, it was Sanghyuk’s turn to suffer.
