These players immediately voiced their questions online and soon encountered others who had the same experience.
After comparing notes with players using other devices, they quickly figured out what was happening.
NetDragon’s devices refused to be compatible with *Journey*.
Once they realized this, they immediately began cursing. The more proactive ones stormed into the comment section of NetDragon’s latest post, adding a few more insults to the already thoroughly roasted thread.
But NetDragon’s Lingxi account had remained silent ever since the last wave of mockery, lying low and taking the criticism as if nothing had happened.
*If I don’t see it, then it didn’t happen.*
Players using NetDragon’s devices were furious but powerless. They could only log into various streaming platforms to watch streamers try out the game.
Meanwhile, other players had already entered the early stages of celebration.
They booted up the game and stepped into the sea of sand; they found runes and obtained scarves; they saw murals and flew around aimlessly…
But their excitement quickly cooled.
They were a little confused: *What exactly is this game about? Just finding runes, admiring the scenery, and then climbing that distant Holy Mountain?*
After a group of hardcore streamers rushed through the Broken Bridge nonstop and finished the trial stage, they fell silent.
Millions of viewers scattered across various streams also fell silent, even feeling utterly baffled.
They couldn’t understand what was fun about this game. Just a little cloaked figure wandering around, finding runes, touching red cloth, and then clearing the stage.
How could this compare to mowing down enemies with a submachine gun, watching them drop like weeds? They had never played—or even seen—a game with such a slow pace and zero competitive elements.
As for the streamers who had actually played it, they didn’t say the game was *bad*.
They *had* felt some enjoyment while playing, but it was fleeting and far from intense. The problem was that it ended just as it seemed to be getting started.
If they had to praise it, they wouldn’t even know where to begin.
So, awkwardly, they fell into the same eerie silence as their audiences.
*Is this the next-gen game Lin You had such high hopes for? Was he really not just messing with us?*
Not only the players—even industry insiders were puzzled after the trial ended.
*This is the game launching alongside virtual reality devices? A travel simulator with no sensory thrills, no intense competition, and pitifully few interactive elements for players?*
They knew the devices they were using were undoubtedly inferior to true VR equipment and couldn’t fully showcase the game’s charm.
But no matter how they thought about it—even if it were full-dive consciousness immersion—wouldn’t it still just be traveling through a Desert? Sure, there was a mountain later, which might offer different scenery.
But making players walk endlessly, trek through deserts, and climb mountains…
Was that really… *fun*?
If the game itself was boring, would players still rush to buy his devices?
Sure, many would buy them just to experience true virtual reality, but compared to the massive gaming community, such people were ultimately a minority.
After all, it was impossible for so many to shell out real money just to wander around a virtual Desert.
VR devices wouldn’t be cheap, and with that kind of money, you could travel to a real Desert.
But how many people were actually interested in Desert tourism? Did they think everyone was Sanmao?
They were confused, but NetDragon was overjoyed! They even felt a twinge of regret—if they’d known Lin You’s game would be this lackluster, there’d have been no need to go to such lengths to block it! They’d sacrificed NetDragon’s brand image for nothing.
But what was done was done. They couldn’t just lift the ban now—what would people think? *Oh, NetDragon panicked and blocked Lin You as soon as he released the trial, then unblocked him after realizing he wasn’t a threat.*
They’d rather let players think, *NetDragon is too domineering—they can’t tolerate any competition.*
“Zhang Heying!” NetDragon’s young president, Zhao Yucheng, called out on the spot. “I’m assigning you the task of contacting the media! Negotiate in advance to get as many gaming outlets as possible to give him low scores—the lower, the better!”
“That’s… difficult. Game media take their ratings very seriously.” Zhang Heying had a headache. *Does this boss really not understand anything?* For any reputable gaming outlet, scoring new games wasn’t just a major revenue stream—it was also, to some extent, the foundation of their credibility.
If you wanted a perfect score, as long as you paid enough, it wasn’t a problem.
At most, they’d explain later: *Everyone has different tastes. The editor who rated this game loved it so much that they gave it a subjective bonus.*
No big deal. Players would curse for a few days, then move on.
But if you dared to give an excellent game an absurdly low score? That was a different story.
Giving an average game a high score could be chalked up to personal preference—or even taking a bribe. Players wouldn’t make a big deal out of it or question your professionalism. *Everyone’s gotta eat, right?*
But if you gave an outstanding game an unjustifiably low score, players would immediately doubt your expertise and accuse you of having no respect or love for games—just being a money-grubbing businessman.
That would be a massive blow to a gaming outlet’s image and authority!
“So… it can’t be done?” Zhao Yucheng glared at him.
“It *can* be done, but—” Zhang Heying explained, “it’ll cost more.”
“Then pay more!” The young boss waved his hand dismissively. “Money isn’t an issue!”
At that moment, planning director Hu Rong suddenly interjected, “Even if Lin You’s game is lackluster, its popularity is undeniable. Since that’s the case, why not ride the wave? While attacking *Journey*, we can also promote *Blazing Flame 3*?”
His enthusiasm wasn’t without reason.
After Qin Songyun left, the position of lead designer for *Blazing Flame 3* should have gone to someone from the Blazing Flame team. But Hu Rong had snatched it thanks to his seniority and now bore the title of *Blazing Flame 3*’s chief designer.
Seeing a promotional opportunity, he immediately stepped forward.
Killing two birds with one stone sounded like a good deal to Zhao Yucheng, so he approved it.
Zhang Heying had no choice but to follow the boss’s orders and get to work. He’d done this kind of thing countless times—it was second nature to him.
With money paving the way, results appeared quickly.
“*Lin You, an Unqualified Game Designer?*” became a trending topic on Lingxi’s hot search list.
It originated from an article by *Game Starscape*: *“Lin You: An Undeniable Scientific Genius, but a Mediocre Game Developer at Best?”*
At first, the topic’s ranking wasn’t high. But as more media outlets and waves of Paid Trolls joined in, its position rose rapidly.
Unlike the last backlash, this time players didn’t rush to defend Lin You.
Because deep down, they too had begun to wonder.
No one said a genius scientist *had* to be a genius game developer as well. Maybe Lin You was just that—a brilliant scientist who could achieve world-shaking technological breakthroughs in a week, opening the door to the next era for gamers worldwide.
But perhaps his contribution ended there. The path beyond that door wasn’t his forte.
That job might require another genius game developer to take over.
(End of chapter)