Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Maci
Encrypted Voicemail: Rune
A good game teaches you the rules. A great game makes you care about the people playing it.
By Wednesday afternoon, I hate Witt O'Ryan.
Not in a real way.
In a professional way. A very specific, incredibly annoying professional way. The kind reserved for brilliant people who hand you impossible problems and then disappear while you suffer.
Three days ago, he dropped a file on my desk and told me it was a retention issue.
Three days later, I’ve interviewed community managers, customer support representatives, league moderators, content creators, and two interns who accidentally got trapped in a conversation they clearly didn't deserve.
I have spreadsheets and reports and enough data to wallpaper my office.
What don’t I have?
An answer.
Which means somewhere in this building Witt is probably feeling smug.
The thought alone makes me want to throw a stapler.
Not at him. But it’s possible.
I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. The problem isn't onboarding. It isn't gameplay. It isn't matchmaking. The players are signing up, creating teams, and playing games. Then they vanish.
Like someone flipped a switch.
A knock sounds against my open office door.
I don't have to look up.
"Still working on it?" Witt asks.
I groan. "Go away."
His shoes stop just inside the doorway.
"I'll take that as a yes."
I glare at him.
He looks annoyingly calm. Dark button-down. Sleeves rolled. Tablet tucked beneath one arm like he hasn't spent the last three days occupying valuable real estate in my brain.
"You gave me a problem nobody can solve."
"No."
"No?"
"I gave you a problem nobody has solved."
I narrow my eyes. "That's somehow worse."
Something flickers across his face, not quite a smile, but definitely satisfaction.
I hate that I notice the slight smirk on his face and his butterscotch-colored eyes as he leans against the credenza under one of the windows. “Most people quit by now."
"It’s a glitch. I’ll find it,” I say with the same competitive spirit as my siblings.
The word glitch reminds me of the best gaming partners I ever had, Glitch.
My pen pal who I haven’t heard from in months.
I admit, I still haven’t written the letter.
I brought it with me and stuck it in a new nightstand, but I haven’t found the words.
I want to tell him about my new job, but does he care?
Has he moved on? Found someone, an actual person, to spend his nights with?
“Figure it out."
"You're enjoying this… watching me fail,” I say with a bit of snark in my tone.
His brow furrows. "No."
The answer comes too quickly. I cross my arms and gather my thoughts.
"You absolutely do."
"I don't."
"You do."
His gaze shifts toward the charts covering my whiteboard. "I enjoy being right. Family trait."
My fingers tap against my leg and say, “Finally, you admit it.”
This time his mouth twitches, clearly tasting victory.
I point at him. "That was almost a smile."
"It wasn't."
"Liar."
For one ridiculous second, his eyes come close to landing on mine. Not my shoulder or desk, but me.
Something warm and unexpected curls low in my stomach.
Then he's looking at the graphs again. The moment gone. "Continue failing," he says. Then he walks away. “Failure is what makes success.”
I stare after him.
Brilliant.
Infuriating.
And unfortunately, attractive.
Thursday afternoon, I finally figure out the issue. It wasn’t the data that helped me. It was the people. The answer has been sitting in front of everyone the entire time.
Nobody stayed because they loved the game.
They stayed because they found someone inside it. Someone else that loved it equally as much.
A rival.
A teammate.
A mentor.
A friend.
For me, Glitch was all those things wrapped into one. Now that he’s disappeared, I haven’t played once.
The players who disappeared weren't leaving because the game wasn't fun. They were leaving because nobody knew they existed. Maybe their friend got a job and was no longer there. Or their rival wasn’t good enough anymore to make it challenging. There are an infinite number of reasons.
By the time I run the numbers, build projections, and connect the behavior patterns, my pulse is racing.
I practically sprint toward Witt's office.
He looks up as I burst through the door, without knocking. Which probably says something about how much time we've spent together this week.
"I figured it out."
His expression doesn't change. "Interesting."
I hate that word.
"Stop saying that."
"It is interesting."
I drop the report on his desk, He studies it while I pace. My entire future suddenly feels attached to whatever happens next.
Finally, he looks up. "You're proposing a rookie program."
"Mentorships."
He nods. "Community integration."
"Yep."
Another nod. "Built-in rival systems."
"Connections," I correct. "We're not giving them reasons to stay. We're creating reasons they won't want to leave."
I move closer to his desk, excitement pushing the nerves aside. This is the part I couldn't explain before. The game isn't the problem. The game is good. But good games are everywhere. What we're missing is everything that happens around the game.
“Rookie classes so new players don’t enter alone. Mentor pairings so somebody experienced is responsible for pulling them in. First-rival achievements, because the fastest way to make someone care is to give them a person they want to beat.”
Witt leans back in his chair, watching me now instead of the report. I keep going.
“Team welcome messages that make them feel claimed from day one. Community challenges that require players to show up for one another. Recognition for first wins, first losses, and first rematches, because those are the moments people remember."
His eyes narrow slightly. Not disagreement. I've spent enough time with Witt to recognize when his brain is moving faster than the rest of him.
"You're creating history before they have any," he says.
Pointing at him, I say, "Exactly."
I grab my tablet. "Actually, it'll make more sense if I show you."
I glance at the glass walls surrounding his office, then back at him. "Can I get these up there?"
He taps something on his keyboard. The clear glass flickers, then my mockups spread across it one after another.
I stop. "Okay. That's ridiculously cool."
"Continue."
Of course. Billion-dollar disappearing glass technology and I get continue.
I walk to the first mockup. "This is what I mean."
I stammer at first then my nerves disappear.
“If we want people to treat these teams like real teams, then we have to give them real ways to show loyalty. Not just online, in person. Team logos. Team colors. Printable flags. Fans should be able to download them, print them, and bring them to in-person e-gaming events so they’re waving flags for their favorite teams the same way Austin Armadillos fans show up in Parker O’Ryan’s number eighty jersey.
People don’t just cheer because someone is good.
They cheer because they feel like the team belongs to them. "
He stops tapping. It’s such a small thing, the silence of his fingers against the desk, because he’s been measuring my argument one quiet tap at a time. His focus drops to the slide, then shifts across the projected logos, the flags, the onboarding flow, the achievement path.
His gaze lifts back to mine. "You’re right.” His gaze lifts. “However.”
I grin. "There he is." Something suspiciously close to amusement appears in his eyes before he stands.
And since I didn’t expect him to move, we collide.
Not hard.
Enough that my shoulder brushes his chest. His hand closes around my elbow automatically to steady me. For one impossible second, nothing else exists.
The contact lasts maybe two seconds. Maybe less. Still long enough for me to become painfully aware of the heat of his hand. Long enough to notice how broad his shoulders are. Long enough to forget what I was saying.
His fingers loosen immediately, keeping professional and annoyingly appropriate. "You solved it." His voice sounds slightly rougher or maybe it’s my imagination.
I clear my throat.
"Like I said, you hired the best."
He studies me for a second, then says quietly, "I'm starting to think I did."
And somehow that affects me more than it should.
By the time I get home, my brain feels like someone ran a marathon through it.
The first week at Synatrix has been everything I wanted. Exciting and challenging but most of all working with someone who has vision for the future. But it’s more exhausting than my previous job and my brain is tired of exercising.
I kick off my shoes, change into my PacMan pajamas, pour a glass of wine, and call Chase. I'm stretched across the couch explaining the rookie program.
"So, you solved it."
"I think so."
"You know that's hot, right?"
I laugh, looking down at my fuzzy pants "No one has ever said analytics are hot."
"You clearly haven't met enough nerds."
A chuckle escapes my throat, and I take another sip of wine thinking about all the so-called nerds, like me.
The front door opens and my stomach immediately does something weird. Because I know exactly who just walked in.
Witt rounds the corner and his eyes sweep the room and eyes land on everything but me.
The wine.
My phone.
Then my feet stretched across the couch.
"Using my couch?"
Excuse me? I sit up immediately. "Your couch?"
"That's what I said."
“I didn’t know you were so possessive of… a… couch.”
His eyes narrow.
I smile sweetly. "Because I distinctly remember being told I could stay here."
"You can."
"Then I'm unclear on the couch regulations."
"There are no couch regulations."
"Good." I settle deeper into the cushions. Chase starts laughing through the phone.
Traitor.
Witt notices, of course. Brilliant people notice everything.
"Who's that?" he asks, sounding annoyed.