21: The Big Data War of Player Behavior

Chen Hao tightened the last network cable interface, and the cabinet fans began to spin at a steady speed, emitting a low-frequency hum. He stared at the flickering data stream on the main screen, his fingers tapping a series of commands on the keyboard to bring up the first batch of anonymous physiological feedback logs. The bottom left corner of the screen showed the time: 18:47. Two hours and seventeen minutes after powering on, the system had finally run its first complete round of monitoring.

"The sample size is too small," he muttered to himself, pushing up his gold-rimmed glasses. "Only thirty-seven test accounts completed more than ten consecutive attempts. The data is sparse, and there's heavy noise interference."

Nevertheless, he performed a regression analysis. Once the chart was generated, the curve suddenly spiked at a certain node—at the 17th failure, the average heartbeat increased by 23%, the respiratory rhythm disorder rate reached its peak, and the galvanic skin response showed a cliff-like leap. He zoomed in on the local waveform, confirming this wasn't an accidental fluctuation.

"Adrenaline levels reaching competitive peaks." He wrote this line in the report's header, his tone as flat as if he were reading a weather forecast.

The printer hummed to life, spitting out a sheet of A4 paper. He picked it up and blew on it; the paper still vibrated slightly with static electricity. A label was stuck in the top right corner: "Rage Index Model V1.0 | Initial Validation Conclusions." He walked back to his workstation, casually tossing an empty Red Bull can into the bin; the metallic clatter echoed twice in the empty room.

Lin Wanqing sat by the window, her monitor split-screening six recordings of player gameplay. She was biting a lemon-flavored lollipop, taking notes with her left hand while dragging the timeline with her right. In one frame, a player character repeatedly slipped off the edge of a platform; while their operational precision had clearly dropped, the mouse click frequency had actually risen by 40%.

She paused the video and flipped to the previous page of records:

- 15th Failure: Key press force +18%

- 16th Failure: Increased camera jitter amplitude

- 17th Failure: Stay duration abnormally extended to 2 minutes 13 seconds (usually within 45 seconds)

"It's not a sign of giving up," she said softly. "It's the threshold of a mental breakdown."

She opened a document and created a new recommendation report. Instead of using a template, she wrote directly:

[Recommendation: Implement Psychological Buffer Mechanisms]

→ After 15 consecutive failures, trigger a brief black screen prompt (e.g., "You are experiencing a high-intensity challenge, please confirm if you wish to continue")

→ Insert a 3-second breathing guidance animation (a slowly expanding and contracting aperture, accompanied by low-frequency white noise)

→ Optional exit path, retaining progress save

She deleted the phrasing "preventing actual psychological damage" from the first draft and changed it to "optimizing user experience continuity." She saved the file, printed it, clipped the pages together with a paperclip, signed the footer, and noted the time: April 7, 2025, 19:12.

She stood up and walked toward the main console, glancing at a poster on the wall along the way. That "Rage Index Model" diagram wasn't quite dry yet, its corners curling slightly. She placed the report gently on the desk Cheng Mo usually used, next to a half-open pack of biscuits and a mechanical pencil with a broken tip.

Cheng Mo wasn't there. But his computer screen was on and logged in, running a data monitoring panel in the background. Lin Wanqing didn't touch any of the equipment; she retreated to her own seat and continued organizing the video tags.

Twenty minutes later, footsteps came from the doorway. Cheng Mo walked in, slung his backpack onto the desk, and his hoodie hood slipped back, revealing messy hair and the silver stud in his right ear. He saw the report on the desk at a glance, picked it up, flipped through a couple of pages, and his brow slowly furrowed.

He pulled a red pen from the drawer, flipped to the first page, and drew a thick red line through the "Psychological Buffer Mechanism" entry, pressing hard enough to tear the paper. Next to it, he annotated: "Interferes with immersion."

Then he flipped to the last page, stared at the blank space for five seconds, and wrote a sentence:

**No, this thrill of being on the verge of collapse is exactly what we want.**

The handwriting was scrawled but forceful, the ink bleeding into a small patch. He took a photo and saved it into a computer folder with the path: "D:\Design Philosophy Evidence\Decision Basis\2025". He didn't discard the original file; he stuffed it into the side pocket of his backpack, planning to pin it to the wall tomorrow.

He sat down, tapped the keyboard a few times, and brought up the technical brief submitted by Chen Hao. On the screen, that physiological fluctuation curve was clearly visible. He zoomed in on the 17th failure node, his lips twitching slightly.

"Interesting," he said.

Hearing the voice, Chen Hao poked his head out from behind the server rack. "Data reliability is 78.3%. Sampling bias exists, but the trend is stable. If we connect more biosensors, the prediction accuracy could rise above 90%."

"No need," Cheng Mo shook his head. "This is enough for now."

"You plan to use this as a difficulty anchor?"

"No, as a Rhythm Controller." Cheng Mo twirled the pen in his hand, the tip clicking. "Make the player feel like they'll succeed on the next jump every time they approach the seventeenth attempt—and then have them fall even harder."

Chen Hao was silent for two seconds before nodding. "In that case, we'll need to dynamically adjust the penalty gradient, quietly raising the judgment threshold between the 14th and 16th attempts."

"Exactly." Cheng Mo smiled. "And we have to make them feel like it was their own hand slipping."

Lin Wanqing listened to the conversation without turning around, her fingers gently rubbing the lollipop stick under the desk. She was about to say something but stopped. On the monitor, a newly uploaded recording began to load, numbered T37, from a newly registered anonymous account.

Cheng Mo suddenly stood up and walked over to the rental contract on the wall. The contract was still posted in its original spot, its corners already curling. He reached out and touched the signature area, his fingertips picking up a bit of dust.

"The signal isn't very good here," he said.

"It'll improve once the municipal fiber optic is connected," Chen Hao responded. "Debugging is expected to be finished by nine tomorrow morning."

"I'm not talking about the network." Cheng Mo looked at the darkening sky outside the window. "I mean... the sounds here can't get out."

Lin Wanqing looked up. "What sounds?"

"The cursing." He turned around and leaned against the wall. "When they start cursing, no one outside will hear them."

Chen Hao took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on. "According to the model's projection, the first wave of emotional outbursts will concentrate around 2:00 AM on the third day after release. At that time, the density of negative reviews will reach 11.6 per minute."

"Not fierce enough." Cheng Mo shook his head. "I want over thirty per minute."

"Then we'll have to raise the failure rate by another three percentage points."

"Add a hidden mechanism." Cheng Mo paced back. "For example... just when the player thinks they've mastered the rhythm, suddenly change the direction of gravity for 0.3 seconds."

"That will cause nausea and vomiting for some people," Lin Wanqing spoke up in opposition for the first time. "There are real health risks."

"So that's why you wrote a report suggesting buffers?" Cheng Mo looked at her. "But you forgot—the people who come to play this game never intended to have an easy time passing."

She didn't respond.

Cheng Mo walked back to his seat, pulled a sticky note from the drawer, and scribbled a few lines:

1. 17 failures = Adrenaline peak → Don't save them, let them charge

2. Black screen prompt? Better to flash 'You're only one try away from success'

3. Breathing guidance animation? Replace it with a countdown ticking sound

He stuck the note onto the monitor frame, perfectly covering the camera hole.

Chen Hao stood where he was, watching the air between the two of them seem to freeze for a few seconds. He finally turned back to his workstation, opened a new document named "Rage Index Model Parameter Calibration V1.1," and began entering formula corrections.

Lin Wanqing closed one recording and loaded another. On the screen, a player slipped from the edge of a jump platform yet again, the mouse clicking frantically as the character twisted and struggled in mid-air, like being suspended by an invisible rope and repeatedly slammed against the same concrete slab.

She pressed the pause button.

The character was stuck in the middle of the screen, limbs splayed, shadow stretched long.

The last glimmer of light outside went out, leaving only the cold glow of the screens in the room.