"Many of you may not know this, but Unreal Engine has an AI-assisted modeling feature. This function can modify real-world buildings to a certain extent, making them different from their original appearance, and then use those assets to build an entire city. With this method, even a single person can create a city on a scale comparable to Cyberpunk 2077. Of course, the city in Cyberpunk 2077 isn't just about appearances—there's much more to it. You'll understand once the game is released."
Takayuki skillfully operated the Unreal Engine system. In no time at all, he had built a city nearly identical in scale to the one used in the reskinned game Cyberpunk 2078.
"If I were an independent developer, I actually wouldn't recommend directly developing an open-world game. Open worlds aren't just about piling content together. A qualified open-world game needs rich content that doesn't become repetitive—and that's not something one or two developers can realistically achieve. The workload usually requires at least hundreds of people."
"So I'd still recommend starting with linear games. Don't obsess over scale. Sometimes, going big only exposes a game's emptiness. But since Cyberpunk 2078 already has a basic foundation, we can build upon it—such as adding fresher gameplay mechanics."
"Look here. In the exploration phase of the game, we can incorporate narrative and gameplay, instead of just running around the city causing destruction."
Takayuki patiently identified each flaw in the game and fixed them one by one.
These were issues he'd already discovered while playing the game earlier. Now, he was simply listing them out and correcting them in Unreal Engine's backend. The process was extremely fast—most of the serious bugs were fixed in about half an hour.
To Takayuki, this was nothing special. He'd already played the game and knew its issues inside out. As a game developer, fixing bugs like these was well within his skill set.
But to the developers watching below, what Takayuki was doing looked like pure magic.
If they hadn't seen it with their own eyes, they might've believed the game was made by Takayuki himself.
Otherwise, how could he possibly understand it so thoroughly?
"Mr. Hanladi, right?"
Takayuki continued fixing bugs while calling out to him.
"Huh?"
"There's a fairly serious critical bug in your game. It's triggered when a building in the city is destroyed. If you're unlucky, it can cause the entire game file to corrupt, forcing players to delete everything and redownload the game. That's devastating for players and would make many of them abandon the game entirely. But the fix is actually simple, and it's not hard to find either. Did you discover this bug during development?"
"I…" Hanladi was left speechless.
How could he have found it?
He'd thrown the game together in a single day, uploaded it to Battle.net, and then sat back waiting for the money to roll in. He had zero interest in bugs.
In his mind, bugs were normal. So what if they existed? He was just there to make quick cash. Whether players got angry didn't matter to him at all.
But now, he had no choice but to care.
Because countless eyes were on him.
He didn't even need to look at their expressions—he already knew what they were thinking.
Look at you. You don't even understand the game you made. Are you really a game developer? How did someone like you ever become one?
He knew deep down that he wasn't really a developer.
But people still had pride—especially under the gaze of so many others.
His breathing grew rapid, and he became visibly uncomfortable.
"Alright, this bug has been fixed. The game is basically playable now—but this alone isn't enough. There are still several areas with potential art copyright issues. Of course, I may have missed some, since I'm not fully familiar with every asset."
Takayuki kept talking while continuing to patch the game, fixing bugs and replacing elements with potential copyright risks.
Replacing models and art assets wasn't difficult. Unreal Engine was powerful, and he could simply swap them out using the official asset libraries available.
Yet even such trivial tasks—mere clicks—were things Hanladi had clearly never bothered to do seriously.
After about an hour, Takayuki had fixed the major bugs, replaced risky assets, and even refined some gameplay mechanics.
In just one hour, a completely transformed game was born.
Before, the game's environment was nothing more than a generic modern city.
After the asset replacements and adjustments, it still didn't feel very cyberpunk—but it was far better than before.
Then there was the gameplay experience.
Before Takayuki's changes, everyone could see constant frame drops and stuttering. During the process, there were even crashes.
But after an hour, while not everything was perfect, the game was no longer painful to play.
At the very least, it had reached the level of "playable."
"This… this is basically electronic magic. How did he do that? I barely looked away, and Takayuki had already fixed so many bugs. I didn't even see how he did it."
"It's not actually that hard. Once you've pinpointed the bugs and have clear solutions, fixing them really is just a matter of doing it. The hard part isn't the fixing—it's the fact that this isn't Takayuki's game, yet he understands it so deeply. That's what's truly absurd."
"Exactly. That's the most unbelievable part. And there's only one way that's possible—he must've played the game, and probably beaten it more than once. But for a trash game like this, I wouldn't even make it past the opening. How did Takayuki even manage to play it?"