Starting as a Manga Editor

Chapter 112: Oh Right…

“Doesn’t understand games or anime-style content?”

Mingyu Tech.

Li Xue murmured as she repeated Tang Yao’s words.

“You’re not at the studio, so you don’t know… Even though our game had all kinds of ideas, there’s one principle that never changed.”

Tang Yao spoke softly: “That the script comes first. During development, the game adapts to the story—not the other way around, where the story adapts to the dev team.”

“Huh?”

Li Xue looked curious. “Isn’t that how all games do it?”

“Most don’t. Pretty much all online games right now follow the opposite model. The writers adapt to the devs. Sometimes, devs will even dictate exactly how many lines of dialogue a script can have. The story is treated as something low-priority.”

“Isn’t that a problem?”

“What do you think of FGO’s gameplay?” “Mm… it’s novel?”

“Exactly, just novel. You can’t really say it’s super fun. It’s the freshness that stands out—the novelty of being the first anime-style mobile game. But that freshness doesn’t last. Pretty soon, players realize the gameplay is actually kinda basic. So why would they keep playing? In the end, it’s all about emotional attachment to the characters. You need a strong main story and meaningful event plots to flesh out the characters and touch players emotionally.

At the same time, you have to take full advantage of the fact that the game has no PvP and is casual, grind-friendly. Turn it into a resource management game to some extent—give players a clear sense of goals, like how to most efficiently clear out an event’s reward pool, or how to strengthen their favorite characters.

On the other hand, while the gameplay is only ‘novel,’ you can design more battle animations so that even players who don’t want to theorycraft can still brute-force their way through 99% of the content and just enjoy the story. Meanwhile, hardcore players can focus on high-difficulty quests and speedruns. That way, every type of player gets to experience the narrative.”

“...That doesn’t really sound like a mainstream game.”

“Exactly. It isn’t mainstream. In anime-style mobile games, story and characters are the core. If someone doesn’t get that, then even if they copy the format, the most they’ll get is a short-lived spike in popularity—and that’s only because the anime-style game market is still small.”

Tang Yao sighed, “Fate/Grand Order’s third story chapter and the follow-up to Fate/stay night are about to be released. Honestly, they were already halfway done before launch. The reason we’re dropping them during open beta instead of delaying is to help players transition from the excitement of launch into long-term engagement.

No matter how amazing the first-day revenue or initial hype is, none of that is the secret to long-term success or sustained income. Story and characters… and the foundational Fate system—that’s the real core.”

When it came down to it—

In Tang Yao’s previous life, FGO only survived early on thanks to the Fate IP. It had a lukewarm start. Most players were long-time Type-Moon fans, and it was their nostalgia that kept the game going. Without them, FGO might’ve been shut down right after Part 1.

And even back then, those fans weren’t exactly thrilled with the early chapters. Writers like Yuichiro Higashide and Hikaru Sakurai constantly got dragged by the fanbase.

The game’s real turning point?

The debut of the Heroic Spirit Scáthach. That shot the game up the Japanese sales rankings.

By the time Tang Yao crossed over, FGO had long outgrown its dependence on nostalgia or just the IP.

After all, the game had over 300 Servants by then, many of whom made their first appearance in FGO, complete with full backstories. Player loyalty was off the charts.

Every time a fan-favorite character launched, it basically guaranteed a top spot on the charts. You couldn’t pull that off just with nostalgia.

It was the story, the characters, and the deep, consistent worldbuilding that made the game thrive for so long.

And here, in this world, Tang Yao had practically rebuilt the entire game from scratch. While Fate/Zero’s setting wasn’t as rich as the full Type-Moon universe, not many people knew that FGO’s original concept was actually tied to FZ. If FZ hadn’t broken records for viewership and sales back then, Aniplex and Type-Moon might never have greenlit the game at all.

Tang Yao couldn’t exactly recreate the Type-Moon miracle, but she had nailed the timing—jumping in when anime-style mobile games were still new, when players would find it fresh. By building on FZ’s excellent story and hyping the direct sequel Fate/stay night, she pulled the entire anime fanbase of this world into the game. It had been strategic from the start.

And now?

She hadn’t been blinded by that massive day-one revenue. Far from it—even before the revenue report came in, she was already preparing for long-term operations. She’d been working on restructuring the early chapters of the game to better develop the narrative and bring in more compelling characters.

If other companies just tried to copy the gameplay, copy the gacha mechanics—without that initial novelty, without strong writing or character depth—they’d be dreaming if they thought they could achieve long-term success or massive profits.

Even she still felt a bit nervous about how her completely reworked version of FGO would perform.

“That's amazing…”

Li Xue didn’t quite follow everything, but seeing that “I’ve already predicted the entire market” look on Tang Yao’s face, she couldn’t help but be impressed.

She’d been worried earlier.

Not so much about her cousin bouncing back—Li Xue didn’t have that much beef with her.

She was more worried that revealing the game’s day-one revenue might cause problems for Tang Yao.

But now it seemed like Tang Yao didn’t care about copycats at all.

“Right?”

Tang Yao beamed at her, then suddenly remembered something and circled back, asking curiously, “By the way, earlier you said you don’t wear skirts at home. What did you mean by that?”

Li Xue: “……”

She looked at Tang Yao’s genuinely curious expression, stayed silent for a moment, and then answered solemnly, “I meant… I could give you the skirt to wear.”

“……”

Tang Yao blinked, staring at Li Xue’s elegant face. “Really?”

Li Xue met her clear gaze. “You want to wear it?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why’d you ask if I was serious?”

“Because I don’t think that’s what you really meant earlier…”

“Then what do you think I meant?”

Li Xue suddenly smiled, stood up gracefully, and twirled her umbrella-style skirt in front of Tang Yao, bold and poised. “You think I actually don’t wear skirts at home, and would just show you my thighs… or maybe do a little black stocking demo for you?”

Tang Yao looked up at the elegant big sis in front of her and, for a moment, imagined the scene. A faint blush colored her beautiful face.

Honestly… she kinda wanted to see it…

Li Xue followed up: “…Wanna see?”

Tang Yao’s lips parted, just about to answer—

And Si Jinliang came back.

Tang Yao immediately grabbed Li Xue’s hand and pulled her back into her seat.

The two of them instantly put on their best poker faces, as if nothing had happened at all.

But through their intertwined fingers, they could still feel it—both of them were a little flustered.

Fortunately, Si Jinliang didn’t notice anything weird. He walked over and said straight away, “They agreed. They’re joining Avalon Studio.”