The message was simple.
This very day a group from something called “KU Game School” was scheduled to tour the company, and they needed someone to give the students a thirty‑minute lecture.
Originally it was on a certain studio director’s calendar, but he had to cancel for truly unavoidable reasons.
“To dump this on someone who just started today… ”
Yet Taeyeon also nodded to himself.
Jobs like this normally fall to experienced directors or producers, and those capable of doing it will dodge if they can—because it’s bothersome and mentally draining.
He knew; he had done it a few times before.
“This is awkward.”
Clicking his tongue, Taeyeon sent a reply.
[I’d like to hear the details first. What should I do?]
A short while later a woman came running, panting, and thanked him.
“Hello, PD‑nim, I’m Deputy Manager Cho Seona. Thank you so much! You saved me!”
“…”
Taeyeon was struck dumb.
In all his life, he had never seen such a stunning beauty.
Staring blankly, he cleared his throat and asked gravely,
“What exactly can I do for you?”
“Once or twice a month we host on‑site tours for students who hope to enter the game industry.”
Recently there were a great many game‑related departments and academies. As the biggest game company in Korea, Nexple received countless requests.
Producers and directors inside the company had taken turns giving the lectures.
“After removing the folks who aren’t good at it or got bad feedback, there aren’t many left…”
“How did you know to ask me on my first day?”
“PD Choi Jonghak recommended you enthusiastically. Said you have tremendous experience and talent, and you’re great at speaking…”
“I see. Haha…”
“He even called you his mentor—is that true?”
“Pardon? Me?”
“Yes. PD Choi himself said so. Said back when he was still a chick who couldn’t even walk, you carried him on your back and raised him…”
Her eyes sparkled at Taeyeon in a way that felt burdensome.
“That brat, doing a good deed without even consulting me…!”
He’d have to feed him fried chicken and beer until he burst as punishment!
Resolving so, Taeyeon answered confidently.
“If there’s another event like this, let me know. If nothing special is on my schedule, I’ll handle it.”
Deputy Manager Cho’s eyes welled with grateful light.
“Thank you! I’ll be counting on you!”
Guided by her, he moved to a meeting room where dozens of would‑be game developers sat with shining eyes.
Cho picked up the mic first.
“Today’s speaker is PD Yoo Taeyeon. He directed Sword of Empire and Breakthrough, and he’s now overseeing a new title at Nexple Universe Studio. Please welcome him with a warm round of applause and cheers!”
When she handed the mic to Taeyeon, a roar went up.
Thirty minutes.
“If I spot good talent, I’ll snap them up.”
Surely among so many students there had to be at least one gem.
“Hello, I’m Producer Yoo Taeyeon. Nice to meet you.”
He began in earnest.
“Today’s topic is ‘Breaking In and Adapting as a Rookie Planner.’ I figure that’s what you’re most curious about right now.”
Eyes lit up.
“No slide deck. I don’t want this to feel like study hall. We’ll do Q&A—ask anything that’s on your mind, and I’ll answer.”
No sooner had he finished than hands shot up everywhere. Feigning surprise, Taeyeon joked,
“Well, that was fast. Let’s see… the handsome guy over there.”
A bespectacled youth jumped up, and Taeyeon frantically waved.
“No, I pointed at the handsome guy—why are you standing?”
Laughter broke out.
Smiling, Taeyeon said to the flustered student,
“Just kidding. What’s your question?”
“Uh, I’m Lee Jaemun, aspiring concept artist. Is it really okay to ask anything?”
“Of course. That’s what this session is for.”
“Then….”
Right out of the gate came a question about how rookies are treated.
“And how big is the gap compared to those hired through official open recruitment? Does it affect the future?”
Before answering, Taeyeon popped open the student’s status window.
Concept art stat: 4.
Not that high, but he’s still a student…
But one thing stood out: Animation was solid—stat 6.
An animator who can draw concept art—interesting mix.
Fixing both face and name in memory, Taeyeon spoke.
“There’s definitely a salary gap. It varies, but most open‑recruit rookies start mid‑30 million won. Recommendation hires? Upper‑20s. That’s what I’ve seen.”
“Ah…”
Everyone, even Deputy Manager Cho, wore surprised faces at his candor.
Taeyeon continued.
“By the way, I’m a high‑school grad. I failed open recruitment. Anyone here preparing for open recruitment?”
All hands went up.
“Anyone here with only high‑school or junior‑college background?”
Almost everyone, barring a few.
“You can put your hands down. My point is simple: I flunked open recruitment, but ten years later I’m one of Nexple’s producers. The people who survive and reach their goals aren’t necessarily those with the best start, nor the ones best at office politics.”
Part of that was a lie—those with pedigree and connections can rocket upward—but there was no need to stress that here. This wasn’t a place to hand out despair.
“You all want to make your own game, right?”
“Yes!”
A rousing reply.
“You all want to become producers or directors, right?”
“Yes!”
“Then first master your own discipline. Then build as broad an eye and understanding as possible across design, programming, and art. That’s the minimum to compete with the heavy‑spec crowd.”
Silence as the students mulled it over.
“The student who asked—anything besides concept art you’re good at? Or interested in?”
After some hesitation he spoke.
“I taught myself animation.”
“When?”
“Since high school. Back then my dream was Disney or Pixar, so I drew by hand and learned 3D animation too.”
So that’s why his animation stat is decent. Better than his concept art stat, meaning he had more aptitude there—so why choose concept art?
The answer was straightforward.
“I heard that when a project gets canned and layoffs start, 3D modelers and animators are the first art staff to go. So I chose concept art. Is there truth to that?”
Taeyeon gave a bitter smile. He’d seen enough to know it wasn’t total nonsense, but he softened it.
“Maybe in the past, but it’s different now. In new development, if a project dies the whole team usually dies. In live service, a healthy game doesn’t suddenly crash, so random layoffs aren’t common.”
He took a sip of the water provided; the swallow was loud in the silence. Attention was at its peak.
“Cut because you’re an animator, a modeler, a planner—while programmers survive and get raises? Not these days.”
He spoke clearly.
“Think of football. Players who contribute stay; those who don’t get transferred or released. Right?”
“Yes!”
“Same for a game studio. So don’t overthink. If you have two talents, develop both and pitch them. A multi‑player is precious.”
He added his view on what companies expect from rookies.
“‘What if I mess up? What if I don’t shine?’ Don’t bother with that. Unless it’s special, veterans see all rookies as the same chicks.”
True enough—though the high‑spec people did learn faster and apply better, but he left that unsaid.
Glancing at the clock, he said,
“Up through year two you’re seen not as firepower but as trainees, investments. So make mistakes, learn hard. Next question?”
The thirty minutes were up.
“Encore!”
“It’s too short! Please a bit more!”
“We can skip the company tour!”
The students’ fervor left Deputy Manager Cho whispering in distress,
“I’ve never seen an encore at a lecture—I don’t know what to do.”
“Give them what they want. I’ll take a few more questions.”
After several more, the session finally ended amid reluctant cheers.
Taeyeon approached the instructor.
“Could you send me the résumés and portfolios of today’s attendees?”
“Huh? Is… is that okay?”
“We’re just starting a new project—lots of openings.”
“I’ll do it! I’ll send them as soon as I’m back!”
A good academy prides itself on high placement rates; having students land on Nexple’s new project would be great PR.
Leaving the delighted instructor, Taeyeon glanced at one student, then stepped out.
Better snag them before someplace else does.
A broad smile spread across his face.
His first lecture caused quite a buzz. Requests poured into both Talent Management and Taeyeon’s personal mail.
[Hello, this is S University Game Academy. We’d like to invite PD Yoo Taeyeon for a special lecture…]
[Gangnam G‑School here. We hope PD Yoo could…]
Better forward these to Seona.
Choi Jonghak had said her main job was handling outside tours and lecture requests. After relaying all the inquiries to Cho Seona, Taeyeon combed through the student résumés from KU Game School.
There they are.
He’d marked two talents.
[Choi Yeji]
Aspiring Game Developer (3D Modeler)
Animation 5/10
3D Modeling 7/10 (15)
Concept Art 5/10
Cinematics 6/10
Background 5/10
FX 5/10
Affinity 6/10
Knowledgeable beyond modeling alone—like hitting the lottery. Interested by her status window, Taeyeon had watched her during the lecture: attitude great, eyes pure.
Must recruit her. And this one too.
[Lee Jaemun]
Aspiring Game Developer (Concept Artist)
Animation 6/10 (15)
3D Modeling 2/10
Concept Art 4/10
Cinematics 3/10
Background 4/10
FX 3/10
Affinity 8/10
The first questioner—more talent in animation than concept art.
Worth cultivating; grab him early.
Smiling, Taeyeon pictured the young talents growing and working at his side.
At Deputy Manager Cho’s suggestion, they had lunch outside.
“The feedback on today’s lecture is fantastic. The company forum is full of praise. Thanks to you, our team saved face.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“The team leader even praised me. I’m so grateful—please eat as much as you like.”
Dining alone with a truly beautiful woman for the first time in his life, Taeyeon could barely taste the food. His nerves settled only after iced Americano at a café.
“PD‑nim, what kind of game are you making?”
Talking about the game he would develop loosened his tongue; before he knew it lunchtime had flown.
“Ah, sorry, I think I hogged the conversation. Won’t you get scolded for being late?”
“I’ll say we talked business. Actually, I do have a request.”
“A request?”
“Yes. In the emails you forwarded was one from S University’s College of Fine Arts.”
“That’s right.”
“Could you give that lecture?”
Taeyeon tilted his head. “Are you an S‑U alum?”
She nodded, embarrassed—his guess had been right; her credentials were impressive.
When he nodded in understanding, she hurried to explain.
“It’s not only because it’s my alma mater! Actually S, K, Y and other top universities have asked before. But there was no suitable speaker—Director Son and PD Choi are great talkers, yet they hated the idea.”
“I see.”
“If someone nailed a lecture at a prestige university, it would be great for the company too… You were perfect, so I’m asking.”
“Of course.”
“Come on! It’s not just the alma‑mater thing!”
“Surely, Deputy Manager Cho wouldn’t use the company—or me—for personal motives.”
“Exactly! I’m not that kind of woman.”
“….”
“Then why are you smiling so slyly? I’m really not!”
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