It was easy to imagine what players could create using Aidian. With enough imagination, they could build fascinating MODs or entirely new game maps. And if the quality was exceptional, those creations could become something far greater than simple fan projects. The real question, however, was whether the effort invested would ever be rewarded proportionally.
Many creators poured countless hours into the games they loved, investing not only their passion but also their own time, money, and energy. In return, most received little more than recognition from fellow fans. Of course, for the truly talented few, an outstanding MOD could become an impressive addition to their portfolio, opening doors to future opportunities in the gaming industry and laying the groundwork for a professional career.
But creators fortunate enough to reach that level were incredibly rare. Most ordinary MOD developers worked solely because they genuinely loved a particular game, with no expectation of financial return.
For game companies, MOD support had always been a double-edged sword. Some studios wholeheartedly embraced the MOD community. They released professional development tools, offered official documentation, and even integrated dedicated MOD platforms into their own ecosystems, allowing players to upload, share, discover, and download community creations with ease.
Others, however, treated MODs as if they were a plague. Some companies hated them so much that they seemed ready to hunt down every MOD creator they could find.
Their reasoning wasn't entirely without merit. From one perspective, MODs dramatically extended a game's lifespan. From another, that same longevity made it much harder to convince players to purchase a sequel, especially for premium buy-to-play titles.
On top of that, the constant stream of improvements introduced by talented MOD creators continuously raised players' expectations. Every successful MOD pushed the standard higher, increasing the workload and development pressure on studios attempting to produce the next installment.
Meanwhile, the overwhelming majority of MODs generated virtually no direct revenue for the original developers. Because of this, many companies adopted strict policies against community modifications altogether.
John, however, saw things differently. He hoped every title released under PixelPioneers could become a classic rather than a product with a short commercial lifespan. On one hand, the company wasn't burdened by impatient shareholders demanding quarterly profits. More importantly, both he and Armani shared the same philosophy: once a game matured into a strong intellectual property, the long-term value generated by its surrounding ecosystem would often surpass the game's direct sales.
"We shouldn't lower the barrier for quality," John said as he looked around the meeting room. "Instead, we should make it easier for ordinary MOD creators to produce something great. Give them a complete ecosystem, one that allows them not only to create, but also to earn the compensation their work deserves."
Although the number of MOD enthusiasts worldwide was enormous, and nearly every AAA game had accumulated thousands of community creations, only a tiny fraction ever became genuine classics.
For many creators, having their MOD achieve legendary status, and eventually being noticed by a major studio, perhaps even transformed into a standalone commercial title, was nothing more than a dream. There had been a handful of success stories throughout the industry's history, but they were so uncommon that they could almost be counted on one hand.
Creating a high-quality MOD demanded an incredible amount of time, technical knowledge, artistic ability, and perseverance. Yet the financial return was usually nonexistent. In that kind of environment, only pure passion could sustain development.
But passion alone wasn't enough forever, as MOD creators still had bills to pay. They still needed jobs, families, and stable lives. Enthusiasm and a sense of responsibility could inspire remarkable projects, but neither could support someone indefinitely. That was why so many legendary MODs eventually fell into the same pattern, the infamous "lifetime project."
Months would pass between updates, sometimes an entire year, and occasionally two years or even longer. Eventually a new version would appear or perhaps nothing at all. Some projects simply vanished without explanation while others repeatedly restarted development as the base game evolved, forcing the creators to rewrite major systems over and over again whenever the game's core code changed.
Such stories had become almost routine throughout the MOD community. At the end of the day, the reason was painfully simple. Love alone couldn't power someone's life forever.
"We'll provide MOD creators with the same asset library used by our official development team," John continued, turning toward Koch and the others. "We'll also release a large collection of Warcraft-compatible models, animations, and environmental assets. If a creator develops a high-quality map, they can choose to publish it through a paid channel. Every player will receive several free trial sessions before deciding whether to purchase permanent access. Players who don't buy it can still join rooms hosted by owners, allowing them to experience the map alongside friends."
He paused briefly before adding another proposal. "There won't be any submission fees. Every week, we'll officially select the ten best maps and provide their creators with development grants."
Was charging for a MOD shameful? John didn't think so. After all, wasn't it similar to the cosmetic loot boxes in Resident Evil Resistance? From a certain perspective, those officially released items were simply developer-made expansions, or even a form of official MOD or DLC. The real issue was never whether a MOD charged money but whether its price reflected its value.
As Koch and the rest of the team listened, expressions of astonishment spread across their faces as none of them had expected such an idea. Was John... trying to transform community MOD creators into legitimate partners who could actually earn an income?
"Alright," John finally said with a smile. "Everyone, get back to work. I need to discuss a few things with President Armani."
Seeing the bewildered expressions on Koch and Sequoia's faces, John knew they wouldn't be able to offer much feedback immediately. The proposal had appeared almost out of nowhere, and everyone needed time to process it.
Shaking his head with a faint smile, he left the conference room and headed toward Armani's office. The concept of paid MODs had surfaced unexpectedly after John recalled two platforms from his dream memories.
One was Orange Light.
The other was Steam's Creative Workshop.
The former fascinated him because it gave creators genuine financial incentives. Although its monetization model eventually became excessive, even charging for the smallest pieces of content, it nevertheless proved that user-generated works could support their creators through official tools, built-in assets, and revenue sharing.
Unfortunately, that same aggressive commercialization eventually damaged its reputation. As public opinion worsened, its growth slowed dramatically before ultimately reaching a plateau.
Steam's Creative Workshop, on the other hand, demonstrated something entirely different. It showed John how an enormous MOD ecosystem could be effectively organized, categorized, and managed.
Their official MOD repository for The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim already contained elements of that philosophy, but compared to Steam's mature workshop ecosystem, it still had considerable room for improvement.
As for the Warcraft map editor, should outstanding community maps remain free forever, or should talented creators be allowed to earn real income from their work? Would financial incentives encourage even more ambitious projects? Or should PixelPioneers simply remain a neutral platform operator, much like it had done with The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim?
John couldn't arrive at a satisfactory answer on his own, as business decisions like these had never been his strongest area. Still, there was one lesson he had learned long ago. Whenever he couldn't determine the best commercial path... Discuss it with Armani first. That principle had rarely failed him.
Minutes later, John arrived outside Armani's office.
Having just finished reviewing the latest report on the Yu-Gi-Oh! esports development initiative, Armani had finally planned to take a short break and relax for a while. However, the moment he saw John push open the office door with that familiar thoughtful expression, he silently let out a long, resigned sigh.