Chen Xu stared at the floating UI in front of him, still processing what he was seeing.
[ Emotion Collection System ]
The letters shimmered in a gaudy gold font, like something ripped straight from a cheap mobile game ad.
"Tacky," he muttered, raising an eyebrow. "But if it works, I'm not complaining."
He waved his hand instinctively, and the screen responded—collapsing into a neat interface with several tabs:
Emotion Points
Game Project
Player Feedback
Store
System Log
The most prominent panel on the screen was a counter at the top:
Emotion Points: 0
Beneath it, a brief system prompt hovered into view.
Welcome to the Emotion Collection System.Gain emotion points by designing games that evoke real emotional responses from players: joy, fear, excitement, sadness, anger, and more.The stronger the emotional reaction, the more points awarded.Emotion Points can be used to enhance design inspiration, unlock exclusive tools, accelerate development time, and boost learning speed.
"Emotion-driven progress…" Chen Xu murmured.
It sounded a little ridiculous. But then again, so did transmigrating into a parallel world with missing game history and a dead-end job in illustration.
He continued reading.
Important Notes:
Positive and negative emotions are both valid.
Emotion farming via clickbait or manipulation is ineffective—points are awarded based on genuine player sentiment.
Resentment and frustration accumulate faster, but come with consequences.
Chen Xu narrowed his eyes at that last line.
"Consequences?" he echoed. "What kind of consequences?"
No answer.
The system didn't explain further, and the prompt faded away.
For now, he had nothing—no game project, no player base, and definitely no emotions to harvest. The counter still sat at a firm 0.
"Guess I need to start from the beginning," he muttered, sitting back at the desk.
The computer in front of him booted up with a soft hum. Its specs weren't impressive, but functional enough. On the desktop were a few folders from the body's original owner—illustration work, unfinished comics, reference photos.
He ignored them and opened the official National Game Development Engine.
Just the loading screen alone impressed him. It was intuitive, modern, modular. Everything from terrain generation to script flowcharts was available with voice and visual input. You didn't even need to write a single line of code—though you could, if you wanted to customize something complex.
"This would've saved us months back home," Chen Xu muttered, shaking his head. "No wonder development cycles are shorter here."
It made sense why games could be produced more efficiently in this world. AI integration had taken the place of massive teams of coders, technical artists, and QA testers.
He scrolled through the toolsets, testing some of the features. The physics engine, lighting presets, animation blending—it was all here, and it ran smoothly.
Then, a pop-up appeared in the corner:
[ Notice: You are not a certified game designer. Current AI computation access is capped at Tier 1. ]
That part, unfortunately, hadn't changed.
Without a formal license or private server, he was limited to the lowest computing quota—just enough to prototype small indie games. Anything more demanding would either take forever or crash entirely.
"But that's fine," Chen Xu said. "Indie is where I'll start anyway."
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin.
What kind of game should he make?
It had to be small enough to create solo, even with limited resources. But it also had to hit hard—emotionally. Something that would leave players thinking about it long after they finished.
And most importantly, it had to be something no one had seen before in this world.
He opened a blank project file and renamed it simply: Project 01.
Then he jotted down a list on the notepad beside him—ideas, themes, possible emotional angles.
A game that lets players spare enemies instead of fighting.
A horror puzzle game that uses silence and stillness, not jump scares.
A story-driven experience about grief, with no "villain" at all.
A punishing action RPG where dying is part of learning.
These weren't revolutionary ideas in his previous world—but here, they'd be groundbreaking.
He glanced again at the floating UI of the system, still faintly glowing in the corner of his vision.
"Well," he said, cracking his knuckles, "let's see what kind of emotions I can pull out of this world."