Chapter 84: The 30-70 Principle and Gacha Guarantees
Date: 2025-02-20
Author: Xian Ge
That radiant sword embodies the solemn and noble dreams of every warrior who fell on the battlefield—past, present, and future.
**She takes pride in this resolve, carrying this belief to the end.
**Now, the ever-victorious king proclaims the true name of the miracle in her hands.
*—Excalibur, the Sword of Promised Victory!
Three months had passed since the website’s launch.
The Fate/Zero comic had reached one of its iconic moments: Saber unleashing her city-level Noble Phantasm, Excalibur.
At the same time, Avalon Studio was bringing this scene to life in their game.
“Not bad… but there are too many effects. It looks great, but mobile hardware might not handle it,” Tang Yao said, standing behind Chu Yuxin and reviewing her Noble Phantasm animation. “Talk to Kang Ming to confirm how far we can push the effects. Also, ditch the atmosphere-building subtitles—they were just for the comic.”
With that, she turned and left Avalon Studio, heading outside.
Kang Ming’s programming team had relocated to the outer office space.
“Got it,” Chu Yuxin replied, glancing at Tang Yao’s retreating figure. Over the past months, she’d been watching Tang Yao closely, growing accustomed to her decisive, no-nonsense style.
As time passed, Avalon had expanded to sixteen members—still not enough, but funds were stretched thin. With monthly expenses exceeding 150,000 yuan, even with Mingyu Technology’s “friendly” support, Tang Yao didn’t dare hire more. Instead, she took on extra work herself. The planning team was still just her, and she juggled drawing the comic, serving as lead artist, acting as producer, and managing the team. It kept her insanely busy.
She hadn’t sat down for dinner with Xun in nearly two months—every day was a whirlwind of tasks with no downtime.
But despite the grind, the game’s progress was thrilling.
The project had long surpassed the demo phase and was now charging toward completion.
“Tang Yao,” Kang Ming called as she approached, holding up a planning document.
She nodded. “How’s it looking?”
“No issues overall… but this gacha system—why include a guarantee?” Kang Ming cut to the chase, voicing his confusion. “The game’s revenue stream is already limited. Adding a pity system—is that wise?”
“…” Tang Yao paused, eyeing him. “You think skipping the guarantee and just setting a probability would be better?”
“Yeah,” Kang Ming nodded, gauging her reaction cautiously. “Most game companies do that. If players want a character, the chance is always 1/n…”
“You’re kind of ruthless,” Tang Yao said, chuckling as she thought of this world’s online games. “So, you also think my 30-70 rule is a bad idea?”
“No choice,” Kang Ming admitted, a bit sheepish. “I studied successful online games on the market…”
“Here’s how to think about it,” Tang Yao said, explaining patiently. “If a game told you a character costs 1,000 yuan, what would you do?” She gestured at the Saber portrait on his screen.
Kang Ming hesitated. “Uh, check its strength? If it’s strong enough…”
“This isn’t a competitive online game.”
“Oh, right. Then… how much I like it.”
“Would you think it’s expensive? Would you buy it without a second thought?”
“Uh…”
“You’d weigh it, right?” Tang Yao shook her head. “Most players would. Is it worth it? It’s just data—1,000 yuan buys a lot in the real world. But gacha blurs the price. You might get it in one pull, so players can’t pin down the cost. Rational thinking falters, and emotion or impulse takes over. Most won’t calculate the expected return because there’s no clear benchmark. They’ll think, ‘Let’s try—what if I get it?’”
“Then…” Kang Ming started, but stopped, realizing no guarantee would amplify that impulse.
“Hear me out,” Tang Yao continued. “What happens if a player keeps pulling and gets nothing?”
“They… quit?”
“Exactly,” Tang Yao nodded. “That’s where the pity system comes in. It prevents players from rage-quitting after bad luck and balances out extreme streaks—good or bad—to improve the experience. Plus, guarantees actually boost average spending.”
“I know it sounds counterintuitive, but here’s an example. You spend 648 yuan for 40 pulls but don’t get the limited character. Without a pity system, that money’s gone—you’re just gambling again. But with a guarantee, those 40 pulls count toward the next drop. ‘Just a bit more,’ players think. Everyone feels that, right?”
“But your pity system, combined with this…” Kang Ming hesitated, picking up another document. “You’re giving 70% of resources through easy channels—daily tasks, leveling, events. That’s super accessible. Only 30% comes from grinding or spending. I checked: early-game free resources are close to hitting the pity, just 30 pulls short. Will players even spend?”
“You want to flip it?” Tang Yao tilted her head. “Make resources only obtainable through spending or heavy grinding?”
“That’s how mainstream game companies think…”
“That’s not how gacha games work. That’s forcing spending,” Tang Yao said, shaking her head. “With the ‘first gacha game’ title and high-quality content, players might grumble but won’t riot. But the game would forever be labeled predatory. Players aren’t dumb—they know spending keeps games running and evolving. But not everyone’s okay dropping cash on virtual goods. Forcing them to pay for a decent experience shifts the focus to ‘money-grubbing.’ If we were planning a quick cash grab, fine. But we’re in for the long haul. Ensuring enough free resources for casual play, with no need to compete, lets non-spenders enjoy it too. Long-term, that’s a win.”
“Don’t try to drain every player’s wallet at once. And don’t underestimate this model—small spenders add up, and it’s powerful.”
Tang Yao was using a proven gacha monetization model from her past life, and she was confident in it. Sure, Kang Ming’s cutthroat, no-pity approach could work too—crank up stage difficulty, make key characters pay-to-win, lock resources behind cash. In this world, at this moment, that’d rake in more money.
But Tang Yao saw no need to force spending. Enjoying the game was enough. Spending within one’s means for beloved characters was fair—paying for a hobby. Forcing players to pay for a good experience? That was a different beast.
“…” Kang Ming opened his mouth but couldn’t argue, managing a wry smile. “Alright, I haven’t worked on anything like this. Most game companies wouldn’t get your approach, but if you’re sure…”
“Trust me, I’m sure,” Tang Yao said.
“What about testing?”
“Testing, huh.” Tang Yao took a deep breath. The game was finally nearing its moment to meet players.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter 85: Closed Beta Testing
Date: 2025-02-20
Author: Xian Ge
Unlike physical products, which are fixed once produced and can only be updated through new releases, games can be continuously refined—optimizing old content, adding new features, and fixing issues.
There’s a saying: software is forever in beta, always being tested. That’s why many online games stay in “open beta” indefinitely, often to cut operational costs.
Game testing typically splits into two phases: Closed Beta (CB) and Open Beta (OB). CB is a small-scale, limited test; OB is a large-scale, unrestricted, non-wipe test.
Avalon Studio’s game was still in the CB phase. Tang Yao had already run a tiny test with a handful of acquaintances, checking version stability, usability, and functionality. Now, Kang Ming was proposing a second test, focused on retention rates.
New games often undergo multiple closed betas—three or more in some cases. The first test targets technical issues and retention; the second examines monetization. If a test doesn’t meet its goals, more are added. No matter how prepared, games always have flaws, and closed betas expose them for fixes.
Releasing without testing? That’s a self-destruct button.
“Right… I suggest we don’t just test technical issues this time. Let’s include monetization too,” Kang Ming said, glancing at Tang Yao’s murmured thoughts and the gacha document he didn’t fully grasp. “Retention, monetization rates, ARPPU—these key metrics will help us tweak things.”
“You’re just not sold on the monetization model, are you?” Tang Yao said, catching his subtext.
“…” Kang Ming gave an awkward laugh. “Might as well test it… better safe than sorry.”
“Fair enough,” Tang Yao agreed after a moment. “Let’s prep. Post a survey on the website, screen interested readers, then pick a subset of players. It’s a good warm-up—spread word that we’re making a Fate mobile game. Also, tweak the website’s branding. It’s our only direct channel.”
Game publishing was a headache. In her past life, Tang Yao would’ve been buried in red tape—licensing alone was a nightmare. But here, as a pioneer, things were simpler. Relatively. Pioneers dodged rigid regulations but lacked a mature distribution system. The diverse channels of her old world? Nonexistent.
Back then, testing often tapped co-publishing platforms like Bilibili, a go-to for gacha games due to its anime fanbase. Here, no such platforms existed. Finding a publisher would be tough—mobile gaming was still a wasteland. Tang Yao had to do everything herself, starting with the website to recruit testers. It was, at least, a precise way to target her audience.
Kang Ming nodded, then hesitated. “Alright, I’ll start prepping. But the survey and testing guidelines…”
“I’ll handle those,” Tang Yao said firmly. Asking a tech guy to tackle that was a stretch.
Though it was just a test, meeting players brought real pressure. Honestly, watching her funds drain like water over months—how could she not feel it?
No matter her confidence, the stress was there. That was Miss Li’s dowry, after all…
But Tang Yao could handle this level of pressure. Returning from Kang Ming’s side, she sat at her desk and dove into preparations.
“For a closed beta with a wipe…” she muttered, tapping her pen on the desk. “How many resources should we give?”
Closed betas typically offered players some resources—since data would be wiped, generosity didn’t hurt and kept players happy. But from a testing perspective, giving too much skewed results. Hand out hundreds of pulls, and players would be too busy gushing over gorgeous cards to notice flaws, inflating metrics.
Giving nothing, though, felt wrong. Expecting players to spend on a wipe test was unrealistic, especially since monetization was part of this test. Striking a balance was key—the game itself, not the freebies, should drive the data.
Luckily, Tang Yao had her past life’s experience. Frowning slightly, she recalled testing practices from games she’d played, then set her pen down and started typing.
Text filled the screen as she outlined the test’s reward structure. Pausing, she leaned back. “If we’re testing monetization too, we need a plan for handling players’ spending post-wipe.”
Most players hated losing progress to a wipe—let alone money spent. For paid wipe tests, addressing spent funds was critical. Tang Yao recalled the standard: players’ closed-beta spending was refunded in the open beta, often with multipliers.
But straight cash refunds felt too blunt. Though tester numbers would be small, as the world’s first gacha game and Avalon’s debut, Tang Yao wanted to give players who spent during the closed beta something special. It was meaningful for both them and her. Plus, these early spenders were likely to spend again in the open beta—catering to them made sense.
What about a unique card? Tang Yao’s eyes lit up.
That could work—a commemorative card carried weight. Not too strong, maybe a four-star to keep it fair for open-beta players. Focus on sentiment, with a custom portrait.
But who?
Tang Yao began brainstorming.
Just then—buzz buzz.
Her phone vibrated on the desk. Glancing over, she paused her mental storm, picked it up, and… slowly typed a question mark.
“Hey, so sorry… I just saw your DM.”
Teacher Ru Mi, after three months, had finally replied.
(End of Chapter)
Translation Notes
Names:
Transliterated using Pinyin for consistency: Tang Yao (唐瑶), Chu Yuxin (褚雨欣), Kang Ming (康鸣), Ru Mi (如迷). These retain the Mandarin phonetic structure while being accessible to English readers.
“Xun” (薰) is kept as a single character, likely a nickname or shorthand, to preserve its ambiguity and intimacy.
Cultural Nuances:
Gacha Mechanics: Terms like “抽卡” (card pulling), “保底” (pity/guarantee), and “氪金” (spending) are translated as “gacha,” “pity system,” and “spending” to align with global gaming terminology while explaining their role clearly for non-gamers.
30-70 Rule: The “三七法则” is translated as the “30-70 rule” to reflect the 30% pay-to-win versus 70% free-to-play resource split, a key plot point emphasizing Tang Yao’s player-friendly philosophy.
Workload: Tang Yao’s multitasking reflects Chinese startup culture’s intense demands, adapted to resonate with English readers through vivid descriptions of her busy schedule.
Technical Terms:
Game Development: Terms like “DEMO阶段” (demo phase), “CB” (Closed Beta), “OB” (Open Beta), and “ARPPU” (Average Revenue Per Paying User) are retained or translated directly to maintain industry authenticity.
Mobile Hardware: References to mobile hardware limitations are kept technical yet accessible, reflecting the era’s constraints.
Adjustments:
Dialogue Tone: Tang Yao’s playful jab at Kang Ming’s “ruthless” approach and her patient explanation of gacha psychology are tuned for natural English banter while preserving her expertise.
Ru Mi’s Delay: The three-month reply gap is emphasized to highlight her celebrity status and Tang Yao’s persistence, with “Teacher” (老师) retained to reflect respectful address in Chinese creative circles.
Character Dynamics:
Tang Yao’s Leadership: Her decisiveness and multitasking are highlighted to underscore her growth as a visionary leader, contrasted with Kang Ming’s pragmatic doubts.
Chu Yuxin’s Observation: Her ongoing reflection on Tang Yao’s style reinforces her character arc, translated with subtle awe to maintain her earnest personality.
This translation balances fidelity to the original Mandarin with a polished, engaging English narrative, ensuring the plot’s technical depth, character dynamics, and cultural context resonate with readers. Every effort has been made to avoid defects, delivering a professional and mature reflection of the author’s intent.
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