He Asked for $1,000. He Got $23 Million. Then He Begged People to Stop.

One

October 1, 2026, two in the afternoon.

Lao Ma sat in front of his computer and opened the Modian crowdfunding page. The page was simple: a tenth-anniversary illustration for ICEY, a description under two hundred words, and a number: ¥10,000.

That was the target. Ten thousand yuan.

When he'd discussed it with the team, he'd said the number was just a token of good luck, "purely for fun." He estimated a few hundred backers, maybe a few hundred core fans, each throwing in a few dozen yuan. That would pool two or three hundred thousand, just enough to keep the team afloat for the two or three months before Steam paid out. Steam's money took two or three months to arrive. During that lean gap, crowdfunding could tide them over.

He'd even reserved space for the IDs. A few hundred IDs, written into the game as part of the meta element. It felt like the right number.

At two in the afternoon, the page went live.

At 2:10, Lao Ma refreshed the backend.

The number had become four million.

He froze. Refreshed a second time, a third. Had the person next to him check on their phone too. Four million. No mistake.

He started rubbing his hands. He probably didn't even notice the habit himself. Every time he rubbed his hands, his eyebrows twisted into an ugly inverted V.

He called Modian. "Can we shut it down?"
"Can't. We have to go through the process."
"How long?"
"At least until tomorrow."

The group chat had already exploded. People were screenshotting and calculating the completion rate. Someone shouted, "Push it to ten million." He typed: "Everyone calm down, this is too much money, we can't spend it all."

No one paid him any attention.

Two

At eight that evening, the number broke five million. Lao Ma started a livestream.

On the stream he said, "I'm never doing crowdfunding again in my life. When this is over, I'm begging you."

The bullet comments flew. "Lao Ma, you deserve it." "Fill it up, damn it." "It's been ten years, you deserve to make some money."

The next day, ten million. The day after, twenty million.

On October 3, Lao Ma did something on the livestream. He stood up, took a step back, dropped to both knees, pressed his palms together, and brought his forehead almost to the desk. It lasted about three seconds.

"I'm begging you," he said. "Stop donating."

It was captured as a GIF and spread through the entire gaming circle.

In the livestream chat, comments were scrolling: "Lao Ma, don't be like this." "We're doing this willingly." "You deserve it." He looked at the screen, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Someone said, "You deserve it," and he replied, "This isn't a good thing."

The sentence was light, but it landed on the enthusiasm of a hundred and sixty thousand people and cooled it fast.

Later, on the livestream, he said something very clear-eyed: "The higher the expectations are raised, the harsher the backlash after release will be." When he said it, his expression was serious, not the usual polite self-deprecation. "This is just a 48-yuan little game," he said. "Don't build a god."

Three

The problem was simpler: the money couldn't be spent.

The game had been in development for two years. The framework was set, the content was mostly there. A team of six, less than half a year from release. Throw twenty million at it, and what could it produce?

Ten more boss fights? No time. Twenty more CG illustrations? No need. Hire a big name for the OST? Not suitable.

On the livestream, he scratched his head and said something very practical: "If you give me this money, all I can do is leave it in the bank."

Leave it in the bank, and then?

There was also the merch for a hundred and sixty thousand people. Badges, postcards, keychains, T-shirts. They'd originally planned a few hundred sets. Now they had to stock a hundred and sixty thousand. He called around to warehousing, logistics, and packaging companies. Every one of them was a field he'd never touched.

"Our team has eight people," he said. "Just packing them will take until next year."

The originally planned ICEY figurine was cut outright. "Tens of thousands of merch orders already risk delaying bulk shipping. Stack another figurine project on top, and the team can't handle it."

Four

There was another problem he wasn't too willing to bring up.

Crowdfunding CDKs activate on Steam as "free acquisitions." That means Steam's algorithm won't count those hundred and sixty thousand people as "purchasers." The game's recommendation weight would be pushed down. For an indie game that lived on Steam's organic traffic, its most important exposure channel might be ruined because the crowdfunding was too successful.

"A bit ironic," he said once on a livestream, and then didn't continue.

Lao Ma had been in the game industry for over a decade. He'd seen big money and no money. When ICEY launched in 2016, the team couldn't afford an office and squeezed into a residential building for half a year. His greatest wish back then was to pay next month's wages.

He knew money was good. Too much of it was something else.

Five

On October 4, the number reached twenty-three million.

On the livestream, Lao Ma said that after the crowdfunding ended, he was going to Shanghai to talk with the people at Modian face-to-face. About what? About how to manage this money properly, about how to ship a hundred and sixty thousand pieces of merch, about how not to get strangled by Steam's algorithm.

When he said these things, his tone was flat. There was no crying or kneeling. He didn't beg.

Just flatly stating one thing: this money, I have to spend it well.

Someone in the comments asked, "Lao Ma, do you regret it?"

He thought about it and said, "Regret? Not really. I just didn't expect it."

He paused, then added, "If I'd known, I would've set it for two days."

Then he laughed, lowered his head, and went back to rubbing his hands.

Six

May 1, 2027. The game releases.

On that day, the purchase button on Steam will light up. Forty-eight yuan, a side-scrolling action game, something a team of six spent three years making.

On that day, the number twenty-three million will become a concrete product. The expectations of a hundred and sixty thousand people will become a hundred and sixty thousand reviews. The altar will become a market.

Lao Ma has a lot to do before that day. Pack the merch, coordinate with warehouses, redo the meta system, watch Steam's algorithm.

But what he most needs to do may simply be to get that 48-yuan little game out, steadily and properly.

That day on the livestream, someone asked him, "Lao Ma, do you think you can do it well?"

He didn't answer directly. He said, "I've been making games for over a decade, and I've never been this nervous before a release."

Then he closed the livestream.