Chapter 6: This Game Is Addictive
Scoring zero on the first try—this was a first for Qiu Hengyang.
After the little bird died, a game over screen popped up, displaying the current score and the best score, both zero. Below the score, there was a ranking showing Qiu Hengyang’s current position as “--,” clearly indicating that the score was too low to be counted in the rankings.
Beyond that, Qiu Hengyang noticed a blank area at the top of the screen, taking up a quarter of the display, with three words written on it: “Ad Space.”
Qiu Hengyang nodded. Those three words slightly improved his impression of Designer No. 7.
As the founder of Hengyou Network, Qiu Hengyang had always been active on the front lines of game development, so he placed great importance on a game’s monetization model and profitability.
Many novice designers had a flaw: they didn’t consider how to make money from their games when designing them.
In fact, a designer should think carefully from the start about the best way to monetize a game.
For a casual game like this, should it be pay-to-download? Or rely on in-game ads? Different monetization strategies had a big impact on the game itself.
This designer knew to leave an “Ad Space” here, which showed he had that awareness. He was much better than those designers who just stubbornly plowed ahead without thinking.
He tapped the screen again, and the game started once more.
This time, Qiu Hengyang was prepared. He tapped the screen continuously, but the stupid bird’s flight path was just too hard to control. He managed to fly past two pipes by sheer luck, then crashed headfirst into the third one.
“Damn it!”
Qiu Hengyang refused to accept defeat. He had to try again.
Five minutes later, Qiu Hengyang had died dozens of times.
There was no way around it—this game was just too easy to die in. Even when playing with full concentration, it was very possible to crash and burn in three or four seconds.
And after dying, a single tap would restart the game immediately, with no time needed to think. Before he knew it, he had already played many rounds.
Qiu Hengyang’s best score was 12, and he had to use every ounce of effort to get that.
After another dozen or so attempts, Qiu Hengyang finally managed to push his score to 14, feeling like his mind was starting to go fuzzy.
But Qiu Hengyang noticed that on the game over screen’s ranking, he had suddenly become 6th place.
He tapped on it and found a leaderboard pop up, arranged from highest to lowest score.
Of course, the names on the leaderboard were all in the format of “Guest xxxx,” since Chen Mo couldn’t force every player to fill in a username right away—that would hurt the game experience.
However, on the leaderboard screen, players could freely change their names.
Qiu Hengyang scrolled down and was stunned. The entire leaderboard actually had 543 people!
Out of only 700 players, over 500 had played this little game? That was insane! How was that possible?
Qiu Hengyang had initially thought most people wouldn’t be interested in this game, but it turned out that far more people liked this weird game than he had imagined.
He couldn’t help feeling a bit smug. Being 6th out of over 500 people was a score worth bragging about!
Qiu Hengyang clicked on his username and changed it to his real name.
He scrolled down first and noticed that the leaderboard was constantly changing, refreshing every five to ten seconds or so, quite frequently.
Watching the names on the leaderboard rise and fall, Qiu Hengyang really got a sense that “this game is lively.”
He scrolled back up and was shocked. The first place on the leaderboard was actually 47 points!
Damn it!
Qiu Hengyang felt like dying. How was that even possible? Getting 47 points in such a brutal game? Was he cheating?
The top few players hadn’t changed their names yet, probably because they hadn’t discovered that feature.
Qiu Hengyang was clearly not satisfied. Besides, he only had 14 points now, just temporarily in 6th place, and could be overtaken at any moment.
“I’ll play for another five minutes, then try out the other games.”
Qiu Hengyang closed the leaderboard and jumped back into the fray.
...
Soon, ten minutes passed, and the effect of the Super Focuser ended.
“What a bizarre game... And I’ve been playing it for so long. Damn it.”
A middle-aged man in glasses exited Flappy Bird, and a prompt box appeared on the screen: “Would you like to recommend this game to others?”
The middle-aged man hesitated for a moment, then clicked “Recommend.”
He couldn’t quite explain why—probably out of a mindset of “I can’t be the only one suffering.”
By now, the leaderboard in Flappy Bird had reached 589 people, and it was still climbing.
This was because people had a herd mentality. Some audience members knew each other privately and were competing to see who could get a higher score. Plus, the audience could see each other’s screens. After seeing so many people playing this bird game, some viewers who hadn’t been affected by the Super Focuser were drawn in as well.
After the Super Focuser wore off, more than half of the players quit the game, but only a small portion of them chose “Not Recommend.” The rest all chose “Recommend.”
As for the remaining players... they were still frantically trying to improve their scores.
Lin Hai noticed that Shi Huazhe, sitting next to him, looked a bit off. He asked with concern, “What’s wrong? Not feeling well?”
Shi Huazhe shook his head. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
Lin Hai sensed that Shi Huazhe’s gaze was a bit evasive and secretive, which piqued his curiosity.
Then, he accidentally caught a glimpse of Shi Huazhe’s screen, which showed the score panel for Flappy Bird: “Current Score: 4, Best Score: 4.”
Lin Hai quickly looked away, barely holding back a laugh. So that’s what Shi Huazhe was upset about. To be fair, playing for a full ten minutes and only getting a best score of 4, not even ranking in the top 200 on the leaderboard—anyone would be furious.
Lin Hai wisely chose not to ask further.
The game experience session continued. The whole session lasted an hour, and only a little over ten minutes had passed.
Of the 700 audience members, nearly 600 had played Flappy Bird, but only a small fraction of them were still sticking with it. The rest had moved on to other games.
Chen Mo wasn’t worried. Earlier, when the host introduced the games, he had gotten a general sense of the other entries’ quality. Most of them were barely passable.
Aside from one or two that were decently made, Chen Mo didn’t think much of the others. Compare them to Flappy Bird?
Well, let’s put it this way. These games blew Flappy Bird out of the water in terms of graphics, resources, and content richness. But when it came to playtime and spread speed?
I’m not targeting anyone in particular, but I’m saying everyone here is a weakling.
Sure enough, after trying out the other games, most audience members quickly closed them and reopened Flappy Bird.
It wasn’t that this game was that fun—it was mainly about grinding for a high score!
Why else would people say this game was addictive? Playing it for a while did feel tedious, boring, and masochistic, but just five minutes after closing it, you’d want to open it again.
Seeing the audience’s reactions, Chen Mo felt confident. The only thing he was worried about now was the three judges’ opinions.
If all three judges agreed and directly shot him down? Then he’d be out of luck!
But as long as one judge approved of his game, first place was his for the taking!