But even if he wanted to launch a game console, even the simplest black-and-white model, it was far from easy. There were a few serious problems he needed to solve.
First, there was the issue of finding skilled technicians. Second, a place to manufacture. Third, how to distribute and sell. Last, and most important—where on earth would the money come from?
His father might be chief engineer at the county's electronics plant, so—at least in theory—the issues of technicians and a factory might be covered. In fact, the entire staff at Yongcheon Electronics was hungry for work, desperate for the factory to re-open so they could earn their wages again.
Sales shouldn't be a big problem either. Imported consoles from Japan cost over 800,000 won, and even then, you often couldn't buy one for love or money.
The cost price? Maybe a little over 100,000 won. Even if he sold it at 300,000 won, there would definitely be a long line of eager buyers. Within three days, word would spread and local dealers would rush over with bags of cash—he wouldn't even need to do any hard selling himself.
The only sticking point was funding. He'd need money for R&D, for production samples, for parts. The workers might work a while unpaid, but components would need cash up front.
At a minimum, he'd need 50 million won to get started. At a time when average county salaries barely reached 300,000 won a month, that was a staggering sum.
"Hey, what are you spacing out for? You've walked straight past the house!" Taeho tugged on Jang Young's sleeve.
"Ah—it's nothing. I was just thinking… if only those game consoles were a bit cheaper, maybe we'd actually be able to buy one."
"Tell me about it. If wishing made it so!" Taeho laughed. "Come on, Mouse is waiting! Don't keep him hungry."
The yard gate was never locked; one push and they were through. A narrow side corridor led into the Mouse's house. A pile of coal cluttered the small courtyard; next to it, scrap wood splinters lay around like forgotten firewood, an axe slumped on the ground.
Taeho opened the door. Heat and the scent of barley steamed buns rolled out to greet them. The front room was the kitchen. The ground-level stove puffed white vapor, the pot on top rattling gently. The unmistakable aroma of alkali buns filled the cold air.
From the back, a tinny chiptune music filtered into the kitchen. Jang Young recognized it immediately: the classic opening to Contra.
"Hey, Mouse is already playing! Didn't even wait for us," Taeho called, throwing open the sliding door.
"You guys finally made it. Grab a stool," Li Ho (everyone called him Mouse) said. He didn't even glance back, eyes totally locked on the enemy soldiers on the fuzzy TV screen.
"Mouse, how long have you been steaming those buns?" Jang Young called, sniffing.
"Oh crap! The buns!" Mouse darted up, "Taeho, take my spot—I'll go check them before they explode!"
He dashed out. By the time he returned, he found out his character had been shot out of existence.
"What, man! I went to check the buns for a second, and now all my lives are gone? Taeho, are you purposely bad?" Mouse complained, dropping a plate of steaming buns on the table.
"Three lives? Hey, have you never put it on thirty?" Jang Young blurted out.
"Thirty lives? You can only have three. That's what the manual says. There's no way!" Mouse huffed. "But I do know all the tricks for Level One. Let me show you where the power-ups are."
Jang Young grinned, "Give me the controller, I'll show you a trick."
Mouse handed the controller over cautiously.
Jang Young pressed: Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, B, A, Start.
"Whoa!! That number says thirty! How did you do that? Where did you even hear about this?" Mouse and Taeho gaped. In their circle, Mouse had always been the console master.
"I heard it at school once—wasn't sure if it was true," Jang Young shrugged, figuring that in a few years, every Korean student would know the Konami Code by heart.
In truth, the world of games was full of hidden secrets. Contra was just one example. For a moment, Jang Young wondered if Mouse's version of the game could use more codes—but he didn't want to push their disbelief too far.
"Teach me that code again! With thirty lives, I'm unbeatable!" Mouse beamed, confidence swelling.
Jang Young nearly laughed—for a new player, even sixty lives wouldn't get you to the end. That's the fun of the game; if it's too easy, you lose interest.
They spent hours playing, eventually passing the controller to Jang Young. Instantly, it became obvious: his skills were on another level, dodging bullets with pixel precision, executing perfect jumps, taking apart each level's boss like he'd played it yesterday.
A strange realization hit him: though he hadn't played Contra in years, he remembered every secret path and power-up location in vivid detail. Maybe gaining a second life comes with a power-up: game memory maxed-out?
Either way, he was grateful—the more he thought about games, the more vivid his knowledge was—just like seeing them on a screen in his mind.
Around noon, their stomachs grumbled; each took a big steamed bun, crunched down with raw sugar.
"Hey, when we're done, help out with the firewood, okay? My mom says if I don't chop up all the wood, she'll cut the plug off the game console," Mouse said, mouth half-full.
"Deal. If your parents are out at their stall today, we'll come back again tomorrow!" Taeho insisted. Compared to skating or hwatu cards, video games were a hundred times better.
"Mouse, you only got one game for that thing?" Jang Young asked. He was already getting bored of Contra—he wanted Super Mario.
"Just one. You know my aunt paid over a million won for the console and this cartridge? If it weren't for my uncle being a director at the steelworks, we wouldn't have gotten it—it's imported, straight from Japan," Mouse said proudly.
"But my aunt promised: if I pass the vocational high school exam next year, she'll buy me two more games. Ugh, but who wants to study all day?"
Still, Mouse didn't seem too nervous; if he failed the test, his uncle could just place him in the factory after middle school.
Taeho looked jealous. Getting into vo-tech schools was hard. His family pressed him to go to academic high school, and then university—studying, graduating, maybe landing a government job. If he didn't make it, maybe he'd go to Gyeongnam or Busan and try to find his luck there—everyone said the south was booming.
Over a hundred thousand won for a single cartridge? Jang Young thought. Back then, originals were insanely expensive. No wonder everyone wanted more.
Within a couple years, pirate cassettes would take over the market; a bootleg 8-in-1 game cartridge would cost only thirty thousand won.
Suddenly, he smiled. He'd just figured out how to make his first real money.