How important is it to come to terms with yourself when making games?

Ideally, what makes a great creator boils down to two things: boundless creativity and strong execution.

But reality is often far more complicated. A producer once told me that he had been working on a game design document since his high school days, and it had grown to hundreds of thousands of words.Yet the ancient, primordial world envisioned in one’s mind must undergo layer upon layer of translation through the engine, code, and art when translated into a project, and it is also squeezed by practical constraints like budget and deadlines. Compared to the ambitious creative vision, the final result may end up completely unrecognizable.

Some believe that sticking to perfectionism at times like this is the best way to do justice to the work; others feel that the process of creating a game may involve dozens of such emotional ups and downs, and without the resolve to come to terms with oneself, it’s difficult to persevere on this creative journey.

There is another side to obsession. Confidence and ego are often separated by a fine line. People admire the autocratic style of directors like Akira Kurosawa on set, and they passionately pursue the strong personal styles of star producers like Hideo Kojima.But every so often, a new game causes a public uproar precisely because of its insistence on self-expression. Criticisms like “artist’s delusions” or “being lost in one’s own world” are common accusations leveled at creators.

A single creative decision can lead to dramatic fluctuations in ratings and sales just a few months later—and even alter the course of a creator’s life. This unpredictable butterfly effect can make it even harder to determine the right direction to take.

So, for this week’s Youcha Roundtable, we invited a group of game creators. Some are seasoned designers from major studios, while others are independent game developers who left their jobs to start their own ventures. We sat down with these industry professionals for an in-depth discussion about the obsessions they’ve faced during the creative process: When making games, how important is it to come to terms with yourself?

▍*Game Dreamweaver: A Beginner’s Guide to Game Design* by Zhenyu

I think the biggest struggle for a game designer is this: there’s so much I want to do, but so little I can actually accomplish.

For example, suppose I want to create a level. At first, I have a great plan: a spectacular opening sequence, action-packed battles and dramatic cutscenes, complex character development, and a truly epic boss battle to wrap it all up.

But once we actually got into the development process, the reality was that the opening animation might have to be done with static images, 50% of the planned story sequences had to be cut, we had no idea when we’d get the various scene and special effects assets, and the most important boss wasn’t even in the works yet.

At this point, your obsession becomes a shackle. It will bind your hands, feet, and mind, leaving you helpless.

This is just one hurdle; once you’re responsible for a system, a pipeline, or even the entire game, these constraints are everywhere.

No matter how we tweak the core gameplay, it just isn’t fun; we’ve tweaked the system architecture over and over but still can’t find the right direction; the workflow is so chaotic that even building a chair takes forever to get approved; our test data isn’t meeting standards, leading to severe player churn, and so on and so forth…

It’s as if making games is a form of spiritual practice—there are always 81 unexpected trials waiting for you.

Of course, the factors contributing to this predicament are complex. For example, they include inadequate design capabilities, inefficient follow-up, a short team-building period, indecisiveness on the part of key creative personnel, and the unpredictability of market trends, among others.

In today’s industry, where industrialized development is the norm, a single misstep at any stage can bring the entire production line to a halt. For a game designer responsible for a specific feature, the ability to set aside personal biases and steadily drive development forward is a fundamental skill of the trade.

So, my advice to you is: learn to manage your obsessions.

A plan that lacks persistence—or is driven solely by persistence—is not a good plan. You need to be able to distinguish between the aspects of your convictions that you must hold fast to and those where compromise is acceptable.

For example, let’s say we’re designing a level.It’s okay to cut back on story sequences, but it’s crucial to ensure that the climax and ending—which determine the player’s overall impression—are executed well. It’s okay if a boss takes time to develop, but as a designer, you need to have a clear understanding of which skills and effects are essential to the experience and cannot be compromised, and which ones can be scaled back or even removed.At the same time, you need to use a reasonable, pragmatic approach and clearly explain to the relevant roles in the pipeline why you’re holding firm on certain points and where you’re willing to compromise. Only then will others be willing to work with you to complete the development process.

In short, your experience is a knife, and it is your duty to use it to cut through your attachments.

Of course, that’s already a fairly ideal scenario. The worse-case scenario is when your own convictions aren’t firm at all, but are constantly wavering.

I’ve been through many projects where, because we didn’t think things through, the development direction kept changing course like a bumper car ride, only to fizzle out in the end. And as far as I know, most game projects go through this painful transition.

So, in this situation, my advice is: trust your instincts.

Often, it’s better to stick with a single approach—even if it’s the wrong one—than to keep changing course. That’s because constant changes not only wear down your own patience but also erode the team’s morale.More importantly, too many changes will ultimately lead to mediocrity. It’s like a sculpture that’s constantly being revised. An ugly sculpture at least has character. But if it’s revised too many times, it will eventually end up as nothing more than a plain, unremarkable lump of clay.

In Buddhism, attachment arises from greed (an excessive craving for sensory pleasures, wealth, and other material things), hatred (feelings of anger, resentment, and other forms of aversion that arise in the face of adversity), and delusion (ignorance of the truths of the world’s impermanence and the absence of a self).

For game developers, attachment is a process of gradually coming to know oneself. Only when we recognize our own ignorance and the impermanence of the world can we truly let go of our attachments and attain enlightenment in an instant.

Of course, once you reach that level, whether or not you make games might not even matter that much (laughs).

▍Wulang, Producer of *No One*

From leaving a game company to start my own business and developing games on my own, I’ve gone through a transition between two different “creator” identities. I don’t think you can really talk about “passion” when working at a big company—ha ha—it’s more about just getting the job done. So I’d like to focus on creativity from the perspective of an entrepreneur or an independent developer.

1. Passion is the driving force. When I was in elementary school, I was really into Pokémon (it was called “Pocket Monsters” back then). Since my parents were pretty laid-back, I spent basically all my free time playing on my GBA. After playing for a while, I discovered there were lots of fan-made modded versions of Pokémon games, and I thought, “This is so cool!”

That’s when I became obsessed with the idea: “I want to create my own Pokémon, too.” Looking back now, that ambition seemed rather far-fetched; even after tinkering with it for several years, the project never made it past the title screen. But it was the starting point for everything—and the catalyst that set me on the path to game development.

2. As an entrepreneur rather than an employee, most of what you do is unproven and the outcome is uncertain. If you rely solely on rational analysis, you’ll find there are many directions to take; in such cases, a strong conviction might be what keeps you committed to a single path.For example, when developing the game *No One*, our guiding principle was “to deliver a new immersive horror experience through Chinese-style nuclear aesthetics.” To be honest, this idea was rebellious and sounded a bit niche at first, but it was unique enough—after all, many game projects get lost in the crowd due to homogenization.

3. Being committed to a vision does not mean tormenting players. While game development requires staying true to your vision, it’s also essential to consider the player’s perspective—the two are not mutually exclusive. What makes games unique is that they are a collaborative effort between creators and players; there’s no need to force your ideas on players.

▍Lindro, Producer of *Goblinwick*

I don’t have any particular obsessions myself, but I do have high standards for my work. I believe that the integrity of the work is far more important than the artist’s personal expression.

For example, *Goblinwick* centers on the theme of greed, with many of its mechanics designed to tempt players into asking themselves, “Should I be a little greedier?” If they do, they may reap greater rewards, but they also run the risk of losing more.

Of course, this approach is bound to be controversial. As the game progresses into the mid-to-late stages, the difficulty will continue to rise. Players are likely to be killed by traps or defeated by minor enemies without warning, losing the items in their inventory and getting instantly frustrated. For some casual players, this level of frustration may be too much to handle.In fact, many of the negative reviews we’re currently receiving stem from this very issue. However, given the game’s intended design philosophy, this approach remains necessary. That said, we plan to introduce clearer difficulty tiers while preserving the game’s core essence, thereby providing casual players with more room for error.

▍Miyako, Producer of *Song of the Dragon*

I find the topic of “the obsession of game creators” quite interesting. Since both my husband and I are game producers, we have a lot to say on this subject. Game creation is different from other forms of creativity; it requires both a strong creative drive and a strong ability to bring ideas to life.No matter how good an idea is, if it can’t be brought to life, understood by the team, or experienced by players, it’s unlikely to ever truly become a finished work.

In our experience, my husband is a classic example of a creativity-driven person. You can actually see this in his past careers and hobbies.He used to work as a screenwriter and has extensive experience as a Dungeon Master for Dungeons & Dragons. Being a Dungeon Master is, in itself, a deeply creative role: you have to build a world, design events, understand the characters, and create a genuine experience for the players within that world. This was one of the key reasons he switched from screenwriting to the gaming industry so early on.

However, for creators, working in a commercial gaming environment can actually be quite painful. In the early days, when I focused entirely on commercial games without any regard for personal creativity, I had to constantly suppress my personal expression to serve the market and product goals.Later, the market began to accept content-driven commercial games, but in many cases, these still had to fit within the framework of “secondary games.” This phase was actually no walk in the park either. On one hand, they finally had the opportunity to focus on content; on the other, they had to prioritize commercialization while also dealing with release schedules, production capacity, player expectations, and industrialized processes.Content itself is difficult to fully industrialize, so he often had to compromise on his standards for refining the content. This conflict is particularly painful for those driven by creativity.Moreover, there’s another underlying issue: he isn’t the primary target audience for this content. His personal tastes only partially align with user preferences in certain areas. Consequently, having to set aside his own judgment and preferences when creating content makes the process even more difficult.

I’m more of an implementation-driven person. I don’t necessarily start from the premise that “I must express myself”; rather, when I determine that something has value, I become very focused on asking: How is it created? How is it implemented? How can it be broken down into tasks?How do we launch it? How do we preserve the most critical elements within limited constraints? So, during the phase when he feels the most pain, my own sense of pain is likely relatively lower. But that doesn’t mean an implementation-driven person doesn’t experience pain.My struggle stems more from another source: I have a clear vision of how I want to bring something to life, but the resources, time, team composition, and technical constraints I’m given may not be enough to make it happen exactly that way. The struggle in these moments isn’t about “not being able to express myself,” but rather, “I know it could have been better, but the reality doesn’t allow for it.”

So later on, I came to realize that the two of us are actually very complementary.Creative drive determines why a work is worth creating, while execution ensures it actually comes to life. A producer’s job isn’t simply to obey the creator or to suppress them, but to translate the creator’s vision into a language that makes the project executable: what is essential and must be preserved; what can be set aside at certain stages; and what, if not let go of now, will ultimately harm the work as a whole.

In a way, his decision to start his own business now stems from the fact that he has finally reached a point where, if he truly wants to pursue something driven by creativity, he has no choice but to foot the bill himself. Of course, this brings greater pressure, but it allows for greater honesty in his creative work.For me, I’m still tapping into that implementation-driven side of myself to help bring this creative impulse to life, while also facing the limitations and struggles that come with driving the process myself.

So, the way I understand “coming to terms with oneself” isn’t about giving up on one’s convictions, but rather accepting that a work will inevitably be shaped by reality. The creative impulse must accept that a work can never be exactly as it exists in one’s mind, and the practical impulse must accept that resources cannot always support the ideal level of completion. As long as that core conviction remains, certain compromises aren’t necessarily failures; they may well be the way the work is truly brought to completion.

▍Producer of *The Fugitive*: Gu Yue, who’s neither corny nor stiff

I’m currently still developing my first game, so I’d like to share my current state of mind from that perspective. My obsession is “perfection.” It’s inevitable—every developer, to some extent, views their own work through “rose-colored glasses,” especially when it comes to their first game. We always want to do our best to make it as perfect as we envision it to be.

After more than a year of refinement, the development of *Chase and Escape* is finally nearing completion. Throughout this process, I’ve been constantly addressing gaps and shortcomings across art, programming, and game design.While fixing bugs, I’d often revisit past art and code and find plenty of room for improvement. This inevitably led to compulsive rework—sometimes a sudden flash of inspiration would make me think, “This gameplay is way more fun,” prompting me to scrap the existing design and start from scratch.All this back-and-forth rework has certainly slowed down progress. But when a particular piece of content finally meets my standards and is truly complete, the sense of accomplishment is unparalleled.

As an indie developer, from the very moment I started making games, I’ve been constantly reminded that “done is better than perfect.” There’s a saying that goes: a game is like health—“done” is the 1 at the front, and every 0 that follows could represent a hit, word-of-mouth, criticism, data, and so on. But without that 1, no matter how many 0s there are, they’re meaningless.

But when it comes to coming to terms with myself, I’m actually pretty laid-back about it. Every time I can’t resist tweaking the art or code, it’s essentially because I’ve grown and my skills have advanced, allowing me to make improvements. So I don’t tend to get bogged down by temporary setbacks; instead, I’m delighted by my own growth.

A tree that can be embraced grows from a tiny sprout; a nine-story tower rises from a single shovelful of earth. May this journey inspire us all to scale this first mountain together!

▍Zhong Xia, Producer of *The Chinese Landmine Girl*

Speaking of passion, I’ve always dreamed of developing a product that takes storytelling to the next level.

I often ask myself: as an independent developer, what kind of game do I want to make? If I were to aim for the level of the best and biggest blockbusters, the need for additional funding would be endless—joining a major studio would likely be a more realistic choice.On the other hand, if the game exudes a sense of poverty, blends into the crowd, or even compromises the player experience, that would be going to the other extreme—and it certainly isn’t the kind of game we originally set out to make.

The entrepreneur I admire most is Musk. After reading half of *Elon Musk: The Biography*, I decided to start my own business because I learned to analyze things using first principles. I began to wonder: what are the “raw materials” that make a narrative truly resonate with people? It’s the copy, the visuals, and the sound. Everything else can be discarded.By focusing resources on perfecting these essential “ingredients,” I can create excellent narrative content—which is why I chose the AVG genre, commonly known as “Galgame.” In this genre, I can dedicate all my resources to the narrative itself.

However, as a self-funded project, even an AVG format comes with significant financial pressure.Sometimes, we’re faced with compromises that seem tempting. For instance, even if we were to cut the art budget slightly, we could still outperform most products in the same price range. For example, if competing titles in this price bracket offer 20 CG illustrations, we could aim for exactly 25—rather than the current 70-plus.

To put it more bluntly, every month I meet new colleagues who urge me to use AI, and I’ve been asked over a hundred times why I don’t use it. But precisely because I’ve clearly defined the “raw materials” of the narrative, I haven’t scaled back on the quality of the copy, visuals, or audio; on the contrary, I’ve repeatedly increased my investment in these areas.

Because I believe that only by sparing no effort to achieve the best possible gaming experience can we create content that truly moves people. Our goal is to build an electric vehicle with groundbreaking performance, much like Tesla did in its day, rather than a mediocre product that was previously only suitable for use as a golf cart. I hope to maintain our unwavering commitment to creating exceptional content in this rapidly changing market.

Many people have told me that making AI-generated short videos is more profitable—you can release one in just a month or two—and that’s much more tempting than spending over a year patiently developing a visual novel. But that’s not my dream. Just as there are many businesses in the world that are easier to make money from than rockets, Elon Musk still chose to build rockets.Musk said: “If something is extremely important, you should do it even if there’s a high probability of failure.” There are many products in the world that are more profitable than storytelling, but our dream is to excel at storytelling.