Starting as a Manga Editor

Chapter 83: The 70/30 Rule and Gacha Pity Mechanics

[That radiant sword shines with the dreams of all warriors who have fallen in battle, across past, present, and future.][She takes pride in that will, and sees it through to the end.][At this moment, the King of Eternal Victory sings the true name of her miracle.][—Excalibur!]

It had been three months since the website launch.

And the manga storyline had reached one of Fate/Zero’s iconic moments—Saber using her anti-fortress Noble Phantasm: Excalibur!

At the same time… Avalon Studio was producing this exact scene.

“Hmm… not bad. But there are too many visual effects. They look great, yeah,”Tang Yao stood behind Chu Yuxin, glancing over the Noble Phantasm animation and giving her feedback.“But current mobile hardware might not handle it well. Talk to Kang Ming and confirm how far we can go with the effects. Also, cut the dramatic subtitle text—we only added that for the manga.”

Having said that, she turned and walked out of Avalon Studio.

Kang Ming’s programming team… had already been moved out to a separate room.

“Got it.”

Chu Yuxin replied, watching Tang Yao’s retreating figure. She had gotten used to her fast, decisive style by now.

As time passed, Avalon Studio had grown to a team of sixteen people… Still not enough, honestly—but the budget couldn’t stretch any further.Even at this size, the monthly fixed expenses were already over 150,000 yuan.

And that was with “friendly competitor” Mingyu Tech helping out.

Tang Yao didn’t dare hire anyone else—so she just took on more herself.

Right now, the planning team still only had one person: her.

She was also drawing the manga, serving as the art director, producing the project, and managing the entire team…

Her schedule was packed to the brim.

She hadn’t even had a sit-down dinner with Tang Xun in nearly two months. Every day was a non-stop blur of responsibilities.

Still, as exhausting as it was, the game’s progress was looking really promising…

By now, they were long past the demo stage and sprinting toward a finished product.

Elsewhere.

“Tang Yao.”

Kang Ming called out as soon as she entered the room, holding a game design document.

Tang Yao nodded. “How’s it going?”

“No other issues… But this gacha system—why do we need a pity mechanic?”

Kang Ming got straight to the point—he knew she was busy.

“Right now, our monetization channels are pretty limited. Adding a pity system… is that really wise?”

“……”

Tang Yao looked at him in silence. “You think we’d be better off without one? Just stick with flat probabilities?”

“Well, yeah. Most game companies do that,”Kang Ming nodded, then glanced at her expression, a little uncertain.“If the chance of getting a character is always 1/n…”

“You’re kind of heartless, you know that?”

Tang Yao laughed bitterly—now she understood what current online games in this world were like.

“You probably think my 70/30 resource allocation model is bad too, right?”

“Can’t help it…”

Kang Ming scratched his head, a little embarrassed.“I studied successful games on the market…”

“Okay, look at it this way.”

Tang Yao started to explain.“If a game directly told you: this character costs 1,000 yuan—what would you think?”

She gestured at the Saber artwork hanging on the side of his screen.

Kang Ming hesitated. “Um… I guess it depends on how strong she is? If the stats are high enough…”

“This isn’t a competitive PvP game.”

“Right, then… it depends how much I like her, I guess.”

“Would you find it expensive? Would you buy it without hesitation?”

“Uh…”

“You’d think it over, right?”

Tang Yao shook her head.“Most players would. They’d ask themselves whether it’s worth it. After all, it’s just a string of data. You can buy a lot of real-world stuff with 1,000 yuan.”

“But when it comes to gacha, pricing becomes blurred.You could get what you want in a single draw. The player has no idea what the real cost is, and rational thinking goes out the window. Emotion and impulse take over. Most people don’t think about the expected value at all.”

"They’ll think: ‘What if I get lucky?’"

“…Then wouldn’t not having pity be better?”

Kang Ming hesitated—wasn’t that how it worked?

“Let me finish.”

Tang Yao continued:“But what happens when a player gets unlucky for too long?”

“…They quit?”

“Exactly.”

She nodded.“That’s where the pity system comes in. It helps players avoid rage-quitting after multiple unlucky streaks. It also smooths out both extreme luck and extreme bad luck—improving the overall player experience.”

“Plus, pity systems actually boost average spending.”

“I know it sounds counterintuitive, but let me give you an example.”

“You recharge 648 yuan, which gives you 40 pulls. But you don’t get the limited-time character you wanted.Without pity, those 648 yuan are gone. All you can do is gamble more.”

“But with pity, those 40 failed pulls still count toward something—you’re closer to the guaranteed draw.‘Just a bit more and I’ll get it,’ players start thinking. Right?”

“…But won’t this setup basically let players get characters for free?”

Kang Ming picked up another design document.“According to this, you’ve allocated 70% of gacha resources through easy in-game methods—daily quests, leveling up, events… really generous stuff. Only 30% of resources require grinding or paying.”

“And from what I can tell, at the start of the version, the free resources already get players almost to pity range—just 30 pulls away. Will that actually make anyone pay?”

“...So you’re saying we should flip it?”

Tang Yao tilted her head. “Turn all the free, accessible resources into stuff locked behind paywalls or heavy grinding?”

“That’s what most successful games do…”

“Nope. That’s not how you design a gacha game.”

Tang Yao shook her head.“That’s forced monetization. Sure, as the first anime-style mobile game, the high-quality content will make people tolerate it. But the reputation damage is real.”

“The game will always carry that stigma of being a cash grab.”

“And you have to remember—players aren’t stupid. They know that spending supports game development. But not everyone can justify paying for a virtual game. You can’t force them to pay just to enjoy it.”

“If you do that, the focus shifts to ‘this game is out to bleed me dry.’Maybe you could make a quick buck and run. But that’s not what we’re doing.”

“We want to run this long-term.In-game resources should be enough for daily enjoyment, with minimal competitiveness pressure.”

“That way, even free players can enjoy the game—and in the long run, that’s way more valuable.”

“Don’t try to squeeze every penny from every player.”

“And don’t underestimate this model.A ton of small spenders adds up fast.”

Tang Yao was basing this on a monetization system that had already matured in her past life—and she felt confident about it.

Sure, Kang Ming’s “no pity” model worked too.

You just had to crank up the difficulty of stages, make a few top-tier characters way too strong, and lock key resources behind paywalls…

Fine.In this world, at this point in time, it would make more money.

But Tang Yao genuinely felt—forced monetization wasn’t necessary.

Enjoying a game, spending a bit for your favorite character, paying within your means for your passion—that was all normal.

But forcing players to have to pay for a better experience?That’s a whole different story.

“……”

Kang Ming opened his mouth, but couldn’t find a counter. He could only laugh bitterly.

“…Alright. Honestly, I’ve never built a system like this before. I don’t think most developers today even understand what you’re doing. But as long as you know what you’re doing…”

“Relax. I do.”

“Then about testing…”

“Testing, huh.”

Tang Yao took a deep breath.

The game…was finally about to meet the players.