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

Chapter 688

In an interview with NHK, Shinji Nojima, a nationally renowned Japanese screenwriter, frankly admitted:

"I finished playing this game in my hospital bed."

“I used to think that the hardest part of writing a screenplay was the ‘climax,’ but now I know that the hardest part is the ‘exit.’”

"This game taught me how to gracefully end a narrative."

Nobel laureate Amanda Ree wrote an article in The New Yorker:
"This game has no main storyline, but it makes every player the protagonist."

"It has few lines, but every line is like a poem."

“I would like to include it in my upcoming book, Modern Narrative Paradigm.”

These comments are no longer just applause from the gaming community, but a collective nod of approval from the literary, theatrical, film, and philosophical circles.

"Don't Play This Game" is no longer an "outlier in the gaming world".

It has become an innovator in contemporary emotional expression paradigms.

One evening, CCTV's "Cultural Viewpoint" program unusually dedicated a full thirty minutes to a special feature on the cultural value of this game.

The host quoted a commentator as saying:

“Every line of code in this game is a commentary on the complexity of human emotions.”

"There are no winners, only choosers."

"It doesn't provide answers, it creates silence."

"And silence is the beginning of all great narratives."

After the show aired, "pixel culture," "program narrative," and "exit mechanism" became trending terms across the internet.

Lu Yu's team has finally received official funding notification from the National Arts Fund.

This marks the first time since the development of independent games that a game has received national literary creation support funds under the name of "interactive narrative design".

The email stated:

"This work transcends the traditional scope of games and possesses multiple research values in literature, psychology, and sociology."

"It is recommended that it be included in the national youth creative support program."

Lu Yu remained silent for a long time after reading the notice.

He recalled the time he was rejected by a cultural and creative fund that year, when the other party coldly remarked:
"Games are not culture."

But now, they are using games to make culture bow down on its own.

Late at night, Lu Yu posted a short update on Weibo:
"You said we don't understand literature, film, or drama."

"But we once stared at a line of dialogue at three in the morning and revised it seven times, just to make it sound like a farewell."

"We don't understand your industry, but we understand people."

"And man is the beginning of all art."

The comment section exploded instantly:
"This is the other shore in my heart."

"You're not just writing a game; you're saying what we can't say aloud."

"You don't understand literature? You yourself are literature."

In countless corners of the world, countless ordinary people are also re-examining their relationship with "expression" through this culturally significant "game narrative event".

Some people play the final chapter OST of a game at weddings as background music for the bride and groom's duel. Some read lines from NPCs in games at funerals: "I don't remember you, but I believe I once loved you." Some in drug rehabilitation centers use game exit mechanisms to design "self-intervention systems." Some in mental hospitals use it as an aid to "cognitive game therapy."

……

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.

Renowned Hong Kong director and Hong Kong Film Awards Lifetime Achievement Award recipient Chung Kai-ming 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’.”