Chapter 40: The Balance Between Genius and Effort

All creators are inherently reclusive.

Creation itself is akin to an exhibition of one’s innermost thoughts—a kind of exposure show.

And yet, people seem to like it. If they didn’t, it would be even stranger.

Although I can’t confirm this with certainty, since Kim Inho is the only creator I’m close to, I believe most creators crave evaluation.

They create to gain attention, receive feedback, and earn praise.

In other words, all creators indulge in ego-searching.

[“Is ‘Even Repeating Students Need Love’ supposed to feel this strange?”]

[“Is it even technically possible to make a game that flows like an actual conversation without any options?”]

– It must be possible, or it wouldn’t exist.

– Honestly, if I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d have called it nonsense.

[“Has anyone cleared Han Yurim’s true ending route?”]

[I know Fusik tried but rage-quit after hitting a bad ending in the first week.]

– This game’s sheer scale is insane. You can’t clear it in a day or two—it’ll take months.

– Is it really that big?

– There are 100 endings. Han Yurim’s normal ending alone took 16 hours to complete, and bad endings don’t even count toward the total.

The gaming community was currently swept up in a craze over Even Repeating Students Need Love.

Everyone was having a blast, and it made me genuinely happy.

I browsed through other posts, which were full of diverse reactions:

[“Why is Han Yurim so complicated? I thought talking to her would just raise her affection!”]

[“Han Yurim doesn’t seem interested in studying at all, does she?”]

[“So, how talented is Han Yurim, really?”]

[“Han Yurim…”]

Why is everything about Han Yurim?

What about all the other heroines I painstakingly prepared? Where did their stories go?

Apparently, streaming the game too well has its downsides.

Gajunsik’s immersive playthrough had such a profound impact that everyone seemed laser-focused on clearing Han Yurim’s route.

But she’s supposed to be an Easter egg, not the main course!

I deliberately made her route incredibly challenging to encourage players to explore it slowly. It wasn’t designed to provoke a sense of competition.

I even set her age low to discourage people from treating her like a conventional heroine.

Yet, as I watched players tirelessly search for ways to befriend her despite the eight-year age gap, saying just the right things to pique her interest, I could only nod in understanding.

Players never approach a game the way the developer intended.

In the end, all that matters is that they enjoy it in their own way.

[“As an AI major, I find this game completely unrealistic.”]

[“Can anyone create AI like this if they put in enough effort? Well, technically, yes. Given enough time, it’s possible for anyone to create such an AI. But only if you have something like a ‘500-million-year button’ at your disposal.”]

– But the game exists in reality, not as a fantasy. So, what does that mean?

┗ Personally, I think Han Yurim’s AI is operating on a technology several levels beyond what’s currently available.

ᄂᄂAnd they’re using it just to make a game?

ᄂᄂᄂIndie game developers are all a little crazy anyway.

The talk about AI was intriguing—and understandable. Even I had found it fascinating.

Creating the character “Han Yurim” took an incredibly short amount of time.

Since I only needed to pull the character from my mind, there was no need for conceptualization—just implementation, which took exactly one second.

When I worked on Infinity Zero, I could only complete the bare essentials due to real-world constraints. But now, my ability allowed me to produce a polished, final version in an instant. It truly felt like a cheat skill.

The potential of my ability to bypass grunt work was boundless.

Surprisingly, I had a vague sense of its power a long time ago—back when I was creating a bullet-hell shooting game.

Human thoughts are inherently abstract, vague, and often inconsistent.

But my ability could take even those hazy, uncertain ideas and materialize them perfectly into reality.

In AI terms, it excelled in inference.

This opened up many possibilities.

For example, let’s say I wanted to create the character “Han Yurim” and have her behave as realistically as possible.

The steps I’d need to take were obvious. I’d have to teach her countless scenarios and reactions, fine-tuning her to act naturally and convincingly.

Setting the broad framework and direction would be simple enough.

But implementing it would require numerous trial-and-error adjustments.

And at this point, a question inevitably arises:

Would this be considered grunt work, or would it fall under the category of creation?

For the record, my ability classified it as grunt work.

Even areas that might require extensive conceptualization during trial and error would yield the desired results as long as I clearly defined the goals and methods.

If this counted as grunt work, then conceptualization itself also fell under that category.

After all, comparing various ideas and finding the best approach was a labor-intensive process.

I once thought my ability wasn’t powerful enough to create a game with a single click, but it turns out I was wrong.

I confirmed this while working on Even Repeating Students Need Love.

Although I hadn’t tested it, I was confident that if I applied my ability delicately and creatively, I could produce an entire game with just the thought, I want to make something fun.

Of course, the fun of the resulting game would reflect the limits of my own creativity. But I refrained from testing this theory, even for fun.

After all, these were games I could think up myself. I wasn’t about to let my ability steal that joy from me.

Creating ultra-high-performance NPCs for gamers to enjoy shocking and fresh experiences? Sure, that’s fine.

But abusing my ability beyond that? Absolutely not.

I refuse to let my ability rob me of the joy of game development.

If I were to break it down: skipping pure grunt work is a “Level 1” use.

Creating NPCs at the level of “Han Yurim”? That’s more like “Level 2.”

And “Level 5”? That would mean using all my talents to their fullest, creating a masterpiece of a lifetime in just one second.

But that ability? It stays sealed.

Now, if aliens invaded Earth and the entire world fell into chaos?

Well… maybe I’d consider unsealing Level 3 in that situation.

[“So, how much money has Han Yurim earned so far?”]

A new post popped up in the gaming forum.

Speculation was rampant. Since VR stores displayed approximate download numbers, most guesses were pretty close to the mark.

Honestly? It had made a lot of money.

And, honestly? This was causing me quite a headache.

Because where there’s income, there are taxes.

And the tax office? Well, they’d hunt you down even in hell if you tried to evade them.

Failing to pay taxes? That’s asking for serious trouble.

But don’t worry. Who am I?

I’m a super game developer (with a broken cheat skill, thank you).

I’d already planned how to deal with this.

• Han Yurim: MalangMabbak-nim, let’s have a one-on-one meetup.

“Pfft!”

Mos, who had been drinking, choked. Seems like his lungs weren’t in great shape.

Grabbing a tissue, he sputtered out, “Wow, why do you always say things like this exactly when I’m drinking?”

Judging by his reaction, it wasn’t water but soda.

Why drink something like that?

“Han Yurim almost caused a disaster here. Good thing it was Zero Coke; otherwise, I’d be asking for keyboard replacement money.”

The stream had been quiet, so I’d quickly chimed in with my message. Yet here I was, falsely accused again.

Another sleepless night of injustice awaited me.

I reached for my keyboard.

• Han Yurim: Pepsi or Coca-Cola?

“I always go for Pepsi Zero. How about you, Yurim-nim?”

• Han Yurim: I only drink plum-flavored highballs.

“…Then why did you even ask?”

Stream viewers often bring up topics they don’t care about just to engage with the streamer. It’s like WWE—entertainment wrestling, basically.

I mean, have we not been dealing with this nonsense for years?

This wasn’t new. We’d been around for just a day or two. But for Yurim, she’d been watching us for over seven years.

Even Mos felt it.

So, yeah, that chat was just another form of WWE, plain and simple.

[“Han Yurim doesn’t have a unique nickname, right?”]

[“Of course not. If she did, and it was discovered, her posts would be disastrous.”]

• Han Yurim: I don’t.

I swore on the gods of sincerity and purity—and Bunnyrun stood as proof.

And yet, why wouldn’t people just believe me?

Sometimes, it brought tears to my eyes.

But maybe this was another test of my qualifications as a super game developer.

After all, superstars are always fighting off baseless accusations.

“So, Yurim-nim, what’s with this nonsense about a meetup?”

Click. The sound of a lighter flicking on suggested he had a cigarette in his mouth. Watching the stream, I couldn’t help but ask something I’d been curious about for a while.

• Han Yurim: Do you smoke indoors?

“It’s fine. I live in a detached house and smoke inside a soundproof booth.”

• Han Yurim: Pretty impressive investment for a hobby stream.

“The house was inherited, and a soundproof booth is affordable enough. My stream isn’t completely unprofitable. I probably made back the cost of the booth ages ago.”

I hadn’t realized. A stream with just 100 average viewers could bring in that much?

“It’s not enough to live off, but it covers my pocket money.”

• Han Yurim: Makes sense why you keep streaming.

“Well, yeah, I didn’t start streaming just for fun. If I can enjoy my hobby while earning money, why not? It’s the best side gig… Oh, wait, you almost got me off track again. So, about this meetup—what’s the deal?”

His comment caught me off guard.

I hadn’t expected Mos to say something like that.

But who am I? The favorite of the God of Sincerity and the apple of the God of Kindness’s eye. A top climber on life’s ladder, thank you.

I calmly typed out my response.

• Han Yurim: A meetup refers to an offline gathering of an online group or community. It’s short for ‘regular meeting.’

I couldn’t believe someone who had been part of a community for over seven years didn’t know what a meetup was.

But since I had explained it so thoroughly, I trusted he now understood.

“Who doesn’t know that? I’m asking why you suggested we meet one-on-one.”

Ah, so that’s what he meant.

Still, Mos… failing to deduce something so simple?

Caught being bad at deduction again, huh? Despite all these clues, you couldn’t even approach the truth, could you?

Another victory for me. Better luck next time, Mos.

“If you keep spouting nonsense, I’ll take away your sword, got it?”

Mos spoke with a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Feeling a little deflated by his threat, I picked up my keyboard.

• Han Yurim: Taking back something you’ve given is a crime, you know.

“I won’t take it, so just explain already.”

• Han Yurim: It’s nothing major. I just wanted some advice on tax issues. Isn’t that something better discussed in person?

I laid it all out, explaining from start to finish.

As soon as Mos read my chat, he exclaimed:

“Oh, you’re a client! Why didn’t you say that first? Should we exchange contact information?”

His tone instantly softened.

Moved by his warmth, I responded kindly as well.

• Han Yurim: Sorry, I’ll look for someone else.

Even Asura’s transformations weren’t as quick as that.

What a monster. Time to run.