GameDev Reincarnated into His Own Creation

Prologue, Part III: Setup

What if he just let it all go? What would happen then? It would be easy, wouldn't it?

No. His mind was turning on him. He needed to talk to someone before the spiral deepened.

Can't keep bothering Moriya. His sister shouldn't have to listen to what he was feeling. Definitely not his coworkers.

There was only one person left.

Giri pressed the dial button before doubt could stop him. The phone rang once, twice...

"Giri?" Shizuka's voice came warm with surprise. "It's been forever! What's up?"

"Hey, Shizuka. Good to hear your voice." He exhaled a long breath. "Just been thinking."

A stylus tapped a tablet on the other end—soft, habitual. "Thinking? That's dangerous."

"How are you doing?" she asked, curiosity and care threaded through the words.

"Honestly? Powerless. It feels like things are happening to me instead of me making choices." Giri slumped deeper into the couch.

"That sounds rough. Work?" Her tone sharpened.

"Work, family... everything." He traced circles in the condensation on his matcha bottle. "Actually—this is going to sound weird—but hear me out."

The tapping stopped. "Okay. I'm listening."

"Have you ever wondered about the game? About what we built together?" he asked.

"What about it?" she said, intrigued.

"What if the world we made was real? What if the people in it were... actually conscious?" His voice dropped, careful now.

"Like AI?" Shizuka's interest sharpened. "Like emergent behavior?"

"Yeah. Something like that." Giri's fingers tightened around the phone. "To them, wouldn't we be gods? We choose who thrives and who suffers. Do you think they'd ever question us?"

Shizuka paused, thinking. "They'd have to. Any thinking being asks why they exist. If we gave them minds, we gave them curiosity."

"Curiosity. That's what I mean." Giri's voice grew heavier. "I'm curious if life is just a badly designed game and what is its purpose even. What are we trying to achieve other than... surviving?"

Silence stretched across the phone line. Giri could almost hear Shizuka trying to connect what he meant to his situation.

"Hm... maybe you're looking at it the wrong way."

"Wrong how?" Giri asked, genuine curiosity breaking through his fatigue.

"Remember those side quests we made? The ones players said had no reward? Most people skipped them, but a few kept doing them anyway—just to see their favorite NPC smile."

Giri stayed silent.

"It was never about the reward," Shizuka continued softly. "It was about how you chose to look at it."

"But think of how many players dropped the quest before they ever found that out," Giri countered. "They thought it wasn't worth the effort. What if people in real life do the same—drop their... quest?"

"Then maybe that's on us—the ones who care too much about how others play," she said gently. "Maybe we need to remind them that not everything is about winning."

"Not about winning," Giri echoed.

"Exactly. Some people think climbing the career ladder, buying the luxury house, checking every box on society's list—that's victory. But that's just chasing the 'reward' they expect. And when they fail, it all crashes down, and they blame themselves, or the world, for losing."

Her voice softened even more. "But what if victory is something smaller? Taking a walk in the park. Seeing the person you love every day. Writing a story that only you will ever read. That's still winning, isn't it?"

A smile colored her tone. "And sometimes, without realizing it, you stumble onto a hidden reward in those little things—a stray cat that follows you home, a gift from someone you love, or a story you wrote reaching someone's heart and changing their life."

"Isn't that worth just as much?"

Giri sat in silence, weighing every word she'd said, a slow understanding dawning on him.

"Not every party makes it onto the leaderboard," he murmured. "Not every game circle achieves what they set out to do."

His voice grew quieter, thoughtful. "But I know what I got in return—a friend. Two, actually."

Then, louder so she could hear clearly: "Someone I can talk to in times like this."

There was a pause on the other end. He couldn't tell if Shizuka was blushing, but a soft chuckle slipped through the line.

"You really haven't changed," she said, her tone warm and faintly amused. "Still saying the corny lines when you're feeling down."

But her voice lingered a little longer than her words, carrying something unspoken.

Giri smiled faintly into the silence, the weight on his chest easing—just enough.

"Thanks, Shizuka," Giri said at last, his voice soft. "I needed this."

"Anytime," she replied gently. Then, after a pause: "And Giri?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be afraid to rewrite the rules. Perspective is everything. A bug can be a feature. What players want isn't always what they need."

Giri chuckled softly. "No wonder you left SolarTech. You're too good for it."

Her answer came with a half-joking, half-serious lilt. "They didn't need an artist anyway. They just needed someone who could draw."

A small smile tugged at his lips as the call ended. His mind felt clearer than it had in weeks.

He had two worlds to protect now—the one he'd built, and the one he lived in. Both needed his care, his resolve, his determination to make things right.

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End of chapter 1.