I Quit My Job to Make an Indie Game. Four Years Later, I Sold 1,200 Copies.

Ledger

The day Zhou Ran quit, HR asked why. He said he wanted a break. HR nodded and handed him a form. He signed it. He kept his work badge. Later he threw it in a drawer. The drawer already held an unopened pack of stomach medicine and half a box of business cards.

He got up at seven the first year. Coffee, computer, code. Lunch was beef noodles at the Lanzhou shop downstairs, extra beef. At eleven he shut the computer down and bought a bottle of water from the convenience store. The wishlist number was zero.

Three months in, he sent the first demo to his college roommate. The roommate said, "Pretty interesting. It's like that one game." Zhou Ran asked, "Which one?" The roommate said, "That one. I can't remember the name." Zhou Ran said, "It's fine." He hung up and changed the demo's title from Homeward to Night Shift.

By month six, the wishlist passed a thousand. He took a screenshot and saved it on the desktop. That day he ordered two extra dishes: guo bao rou and smashed cucumber. He ate half, opened the backend, and the number was 998. He refreshed. 997. He closed the backend and put the rest of the guo bao rou in the fridge.

Nine months in, a publisher emailed him. They said they were interested. The email had the words "potential," "unique," and "but." Zhou Ran read it three times. He wrote back eight hundred words about the core loop, the target audience, and the update plan. The reply came fast: "Sorry, our schedule is full." He moved the email to Archived and kept writing code.

A year in, he ran out of money. He did the math. Savings would last four more months. He changed his rent from deposit plus three months to monthly. The landlord said, "Fine, but it's two hundred more." He said, "Okay." That night he opened a job board and looked for half an hour. Closed it. Opened Unity. An error. He fixed it until three in the morning. His stomach hurt. He dug through the drawer for stomach medicine. The pill stuck in his throat. He drank cold water and swallowed.

Fifteen months in, the game launched. No publisher, no streamer, no trailer. He cut a thirty-second video himself and posted it on Bilibili. It got 237 views. Three comments. One said, "Looks good." One said, "The UI is ugly." One was an ad. First-week sales: 46 copies. Wishlist conversion: three percent. He stared at the backend. The number didn't move. He shut the computer down and bought oden downstairs. The radish was overcooked. He didn't finish it.

Twenty days later, the first negative review arrived. The player wrote, "Refunded after two hours. Boring." Zhou Ran clicked the profile. Playtime: 1.9 hours. He wrote a reply, deleted it. Wrote another, deleted it. Finally: "Thanks for the feedback." He screenshotted the review and saved it next to the wishlist screenshot.

Three months after launch, he took the game down. Not forever. Temporarily. He changed the title, added new gameplay, redid the tutorial. The day he put it back up, he posted an announcement. No comments. He sat in his chair and looked at the screen. One pothos leaf had turned yellow. He cut it off and watered the plant. Water ran out the bottom and dripped onto the desk. He wiped it with a tissue.

Two years in, he went to Shanghai for an indie game expo. The booth fee was eight thousand. He shared a small booth with three other people. Someone stopped to play. Ten minutes later, the person said, "Pretty interesting." Zhou Ran asked, "Will you buy it?" The person said, "I'll wait for a sale." Zhou Ran laughed and handed over a sticker. The sticker was the game's protagonist, drawn by him.

That night the exhibitors ate hot pot. Someone asked, "What did you do before?" He said, "I wrote code." The person said, "Big company?" He said, "Yeah." The person said, "Then why not go back?" Zhou Ran picked up a piece of tripe, swished it for seven seconds, and put it in sesame paste. He said, "Go back for what?" The person said, "The pay is good." Zhou Ran ate the tripe. He said, "True." He didn't say anything else.

Three years in, the game had sold 1,200 copies. After tax and the platform's cut, it covered one year's rent. He moved from a one-room apartment to a smaller one. The new room had no balcony. The pothos sat on the windowsill, leaves growing outward. He put the desk beside the bed. When he pushed the chair in, it hit the bed. At night he heard footsteps upstairs.

His mother called one day. She asked how he was. He said, "Pretty good." She asked, "Still working on that game?" He said, "Yeah." She asked, "Does it make money?" He said, "It's okay." She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Why not come back and take the civil service exam?" He said, "We'll see." After he hung up, he opened the Steam backend. The number hadn't changed. He closed it and made a new folder. He named it New Project. The folder was empty. He looked at it for a long time.

Four years in, a former colleague messaged him. The company was short-staffed. They asked if he wanted to come back. The pay was higher than when he left. Zhou Ran replied, "I'll think about it." The colleague said, "Okay. Let me know." Zhou Ran put the phone face down. He opened the game project and looked at the nodes. He hit run. The protagonist stood in the middle of the screen, not moving. He pressed an arrow key. The protagonist took one step. He let go. The protagonist stopped.

That night he went for a walk. He bought a rice ball and a bottle of water at the convenience store. The cashier asked if he wanted it heated. He said, "No." He stood outside and ate the rice ball. Seaweed stuck to his fingers. He rubbed them. It didn't come off. He went back to his room and opened the computer. The Steamworks backend was still open. He changed the release date from TBD to September 18, 2026. Then he washed the dishes. A bowl had been soaking since yesterday. The water was cold. He squeezed dish soap. The sponge went around twice. He rinsed it and put it on the drying rack. He went to sleep. Footsteps came from upstairs. He turned over. The pothos was on the windowsill, leaves facing outside. He fell asleep.

By the money ledger, Zhou Ran lost four years. The salary he gave up could have covered a down payment on a small apartment in a smaller city. The time could have gotten him promoted twice. What he had was 1,200 sales, a few dozen reviews, an empty folder, and a pothos growing outward.

He kept other ledgers. One said he had made something that belonged to him. Another said if he didn't do it, he would always think about it. They didn't agree.