You said you were going to make games, how did you become the richest man without doing anything?

Chapter 687

Department of Interactive Media, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT):
"This game perfectly blends anti-game mechanics with emotion-based narrative, truly creating a game experience that is 'realistic even without playing'."

Digital Narrative Research Lab, Tokyo University of the Arts, Japan:
“We are studying the impact of ‘refusal-based interaction’ on players’ mental state, and this game is the best example.”

Digital Media Class, Academy of Arts & Design, Tsinghua University:
"Don't play this game" is not the answer to game design, but the question itself.

In a trending topic in China, the title boldly stated:

[From Game to Cultural Phenomenon: An Analysis of the Phenomenon-Significant Spread of "Don't Play This Game"]

The comment section exploded:
My mom actually asked me to teach her how to play this game yesterday, saying it was recommended by her friend.

My advisor used it as the topic for his final paper; it truly is a sample box of human emotions.

I saw a monk playing with it in a temple, and honestly, I didn't dare disturb him.

This game is no longer just a game; it's a soft rug for our collective, broken lives.

Lu Yu was standing in front of a huge city billboard.

That was a collaboration advertisement between "Don't Play This Game" and a well-known brand. The visuals were extremely simple: a magnifying glass was placed in the ruins of a city, with the following text printed below:
"You didn't come here to fix the world, you just want to be seen by the world."

Passersby stopped to take photos, post them on social media, and watch short videos.

A boy in a school uniform stood by the roadside, staring at the advertisement, and suddenly murmured:

"This game... is the first one where I've reached the ending without being forced to win."

Lu Yu was slightly taken aback upon hearing this, and turned to look at the young man.

He suddenly realized that the end of this game was not in the game itself.

It happens the instant each player utters those words.

It was in their eyes, in the tiny light.

At night, he returned to his studio and opened his email.

In the inbox, emails from all over the world are constantly being refreshed:

From a German philosophy professor: "What you've created is a postmodern narrative experiment." From a player with ALS: "This is the only game I can complete with an eye-tracking device; it makes me feel like I'm still having a conversation." From a deaf-mute girl: "I can't hear the narration, but I translated every sentence, and it felt like it was talking to me." From a prisoner: "I played the last chapter in my cell, and for the first time, I wanted to say to my younger self: You weren't wrong."

Lu Yu picked up his pen and turned to the first page of his development notebook.

That was the first page from three years ago, with a sentence written on it:

"I want to make a game that doesn't require players to succeed, nor does it punish them for failing."

He looked down and added another sentence below that one:
"They did it."

The early spring breeze still carried a lingering chill, while the afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lu Yu's office, casting slanted rays onto the black keyboard. Amidst the light and shadow, an email quietly flickered in the lower right corner of the screen.

From: Li Muchuan, Director.

Subject: Reflections on the film "Don't Play This Game".

Lu Yu was taken aback.

He recognized the name.

Who in the entire domestic film and television industry doesn't know him?

Li Muchuan, a Palme d'Or-nominated director, whose representative works include "City of Backlight" and "Man in the Clouds," is a genius who navigates between art films and commercial box office success with ease. His name has always appeared only in film school textbooks, on the red carpets of international film festivals, and in top-tier interview programs.

But now, he's sent an email?

Lu Yu's fingertip hovered over the mouse, and he held his breath as he opened the email.

"Hello, Mr. Bi'an."

I am director Li Muchuan. Last night I stayed up all night watching your work, "Don't Play This Game".

At four in the morning, I reached the final door in the game, and the narrator said: 'You choose to continue, I respect your decision.'

At that moment, I suddenly remembered the first shot of my movie.

I want to tell you—

You are not playing a game; you are waging a revolution of the silent.

You gave those who were never in the spotlight their moment to shine.

Thank you for giving the "choice" back to the players.

If you'd like, I'd like to invite you to be my 'interactive narrative consultant' for my next project.

Sincerely,
salute."

Lu Yu stared at the email for a long time, motionless. His heart felt as if it had been gently touched by something soft.

He recalled the early days of development, those days of working day and night, when the team almost fell apart, the servers crashed, and funding failed. Even he himself began to doubt: Could anyone really understand this game?
But now, not only do some people understand it, but they are also willing to call it "the revolution of the protagonist".

He lowered his head and replied:
"Thank you. This is the most tender tribute I have ever received."

At the other end of the desk, art director Alu was browsing Weibo's trending topics.

She sat bolt upright, frantically pointing at the screen and shouting, "Look! Teacher Nanchuan posted on Weibo! He's actually recommending our game!"

The crowd gathered around.

On the screen is a long blog post written by the renowned author Nan Chuan:

"I've been writing novels for twenty years, and I never imagined that one day a pixel game would bring me to tears."

"Don't play this game. It's not about telling a story; it's about revealing the stories you've never told before."

“When that NPC kept saying ‘I don’t remember you,’ I was reminded of my mother’s Alzheimer’s disease before she passed away.”

"I want to say to the developers: what you wrote is not dialogue, but a shared memory of human sorrow."

"This is a reverse invasion of literature. A literary uprising originating from games."

The comment section instantly erupted:
[Even Teacher Nanchuan cried... What kind of divine creation is this game?]

The term "literary riot" is too harsh! But I understand! I really understand!

My mom played it yesterday too, and said she understands why I left home back then...

Old Fish swallowed hard as he read: "This is even more explosive than the copywriting we write ourselves."

"Isn't this the real cultural invasion?" Lin Zhen patted him on the shoulder. "Game narratives have triumphed over the literary world. First round win!"

Meanwhile, at the other end of the spectrum, in a study in Paris, France, Nolansky sat by the fireplace, holding a Switch in his hand.

He is one of Europe's most influential theater directors, having directed more than ten award-winning stage plays, and he moves effortlessly between the boundaries of literature and drama.

He placed the Switch on his lap, gently removed his glasses, and stared at the game's background text for a long time:
"You are not remembered for your victories, but for your perseverance."

The firelight reflected in his eyes as he slowly picked up his pen and wrote in his personal column:

"I never imagined that a game with no actors, no set design, and no stage could so accurately strike at the essence of theatrical art."

"Its narration is like an unseen director, always whispering beside you, not interfering with your choices, but constantly questioning your motives."

"This is not just a game; it's an immersive psychological theater experience."

“I would like to incorporate this into the teaching model of the Paris Dramatic Arts School, to tell students—'The core of drama is not performance, but companionship.'”

This commentary was subsequently reprinted by three major international media outlets: Le Figaro, The Guardian, and The New York Times, with the following headline:
"When games become theater: A soulful confession from a pixelated world."

Lin Qiubai, a well-known domestic screenwriter and CCTV arts critic, also posted on Weibo:
"Don't Play This Game made me realize that our understanding of games has been too narrow in the past."

"It's not a form of entertainment; it's an outlet for the emotions of modern society."

"If TV dramas are a mirror of reality, then this game is the version of yourself that you've never dared to look directly at."

Meanwhile, in Shanghai, a well-known theater director is holding a creative meeting in the rehearsal hall.

“We’ll change the original script.” He stood in the center of the rehearsal room, his tone firm.

“We’re taking inspiration from the structure of ‘Don’t Play This Game’ to create a play where ‘the audience decides the plot.’ We’ll use narration, without any actors appearing, just sound and lighting, to create a psychological cue for ‘whether you continue.’”

He scanned the crowd, a rare excitement in his eyes:
"What we're doing is not a play."

"It is a live dialogue between a person and themselves."

At the Beijing Film Academy, a public lecture titled "Games and the Narrative Revolution" was packed to capacity.

The speaker was Zhou Ziming, a mentor for young screenwriters and a Golden Horse Award winner.

He walked onto the podium, with screenshots of the game "Don't Play This Game" projected behind him, and spoke in a calm yet powerful tone:

“I used to think that the hardest thing to write was ‘spoken dialogue’.”

"But this game taught me that the most touching thing is 'the silence that is not spoken'."

He pointed to a line of text on the screen:
"You can leave, I won't blame you."

"This line is better than all the sentimental scenes I've ever written."

"Because it wasn't written for players, it was written for humans."

That night, Lu Yu received a phone call from an unknown number.

"Hello, I am Chen Wang, a documentary director."

His voice was gentle, with a slight huskiness, “I want to make a documentary about your team.”

"It's not about talking about the game's success, but about documenting how a group of people used pixels to create a global emotional resonance."

Lu Yu was silent for a moment, then asked softly, "Do you really think... it's worth making?"

"It's worth it," Chen Wang answered without hesitation.

"Because what you're doing isn't a game."

"It is the spiritual legacy of contemporary people."

And all of this ultimately converges into an undeniable reality:

"Don't Play This Game" has successfully broken down the boundaries between "games" and "culture".

It's no longer just a dialogue between players and developers.

It became a "collective creation" involving directors, writers, screenwriters, critics, theater professionals, philosophers, and psychologists.

Thinkers in every industry see something "unspoken" within its structure.

It is a celebration for the silent, an embrace for the defeated, and an echo of souls among creators.

Lu Yu stood on the city rooftop, gazing up at the stars.

In his hands were handwritten letters, electronic messages, and autographed photos from dozens of cultural figures.

Every letter, every word, is an industry's response to their games.

He suddenly remembered the things they had questioned back then:

"Is there really anything we can do?"

"We don't understand plots, movies, or literature."

"We only understand code."

But now, those who understand plot, writing, and cinematography best are all saying:
"You know, it's a human being."

Lu Yu smiled and whispered:
"thank you all."

"We finished writing this game together."

The night was as dark as ink, and the city's buildings outlined a jagged skyline in the distance.

Lu Yu sat alone on the rooftop of his studio. Beside him was a cup of cold Tieguanyin tea, the night wind ruffling the hem of his thin trench coat, making it look pixelated and messy.

His phone screen was still lit up, showing the conversation that had just ended.

Chen Wang:
"I will send you a first draft of the documentary filming plan."

"Your team's story deserves to be recorded."

Lu Yu closed his phone, gazed at the city lights, and remained silent for a long time.

He didn't know when it started, but they, this group of "game developers" who wrote code, drew pixels, adjusted voices, fixed bugs, and lived on five yuan worth of instant noodles, became "narrative revolutionaries" in the eyes of directors.

But he vaguely understood one thing:

Some works, once created, no longer belong solely to their creators.

It belongs to everyone who understands it—whether they are a player, a director, a writer, or someone who once cried alone in the dead of night.

The next morning, a long article was pushed to the Douban Read homepage.

The author is Yu Qinghe, a renowned contemporary novelist and winner of the Lu Xun Literary Prize.

The article title is stunning:

"Games are roses blooming in ruins—A tribute to the creators of 'Don't Play This Game'"

Excerpt from the main text:
"I finished the game at 3 a.m. and then couldn't sleep all night."

It's not because it's touching, but because it's real.

'You don't have to play.' This is its most frequently said phrase.

But I don't want to leave it.

This is a deeper emotional logic than 'coercion'; it is 'understanding'.

It doesn't force you to stay, but rather makes you want to stay.

The article garnered over 100,000 likes in just six hours, and the comment section was overflowing.
"Yu Qinghe even wrote an essay about it, so what reason do I have not to play it?"

"If video games were to be included in literary history, this would definitely be it."

At the same time, the top domestic stage theater troupe, "Wood and Stone Project," also released an official announcement.

"We will collaborate with the development team of 'Don't Play This Game' to produce China's first 'pixel-structured narrative drama'."

"The performance will use a non-continuous stage structure, combined with interactive choices made by the live audience, simulating the 'exit/continue' mechanism in a game."

"During the performance, the actors may 'stop performing' at any time, and the audience will decide whether to continue."

When Lu Yu received the proposal, he was completely stunned.

He never imagined that the code logic, branching plots, and unpretentious dialogue he wrote would become the "skeleton" of a play.

Staff member A-Lu, holding the printed copy, said with reddened eyes, "We've turned the players into scriptwriters."

Lin Zhen muttered to himself, "I knew we'd end up being dragged into acting."

But no one laughed.

Because they all knew that it wasn't a joke.

That's a sign of respect.

Following this, a series of surprises came from the cultural world.

Chung Kai-ming, a renowned director from Kowloon and recipient of the Hong Kong Film Awards Lifetime Achievement Award, published an article in *Oriental Art Review*:
"This is the first time I've written a review for a game."

"The narration in the game is the most sophisticated 'perspective handling' I've ever seen in my life."

“He doesn’t dictate the plot, but he dictates the emotions. He doesn’t have a God’s-eye view, but rather the ‘whispers of the mute’.”

"This is not a victory for game writers, but a landmark leap forward in modern narrative structure."

(End of this chapter)