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Season 10’s All-Star Weekend was in Qingdao, so Zhang Xinjie was the one to host the tacticians’ meetup, just as Wang Jiexi had the year previous, and Jiang Botao the year before that. Thus the evening of the second day of the event found the group, as usual, sitting at a table in a restaurant, discussing whatever it was that came to mind.
Which, in a bizarre case of meta-conversation, turned out to be the very nature of meeting up to discuss tactics and game meta at all. Although other players would hang around to talk about various things after the event, even take the same cars back to their hotels if they wanted to keep the conversation going, it was really only rookies that put effort into discussing Glory itself during All-Star Weekend. For this older group to have a tradition of gathering for no other purpose than discussing the game seemed somewhat out of place, at least to Jiang Botao.
“That’s just because you debuted later,” Ye Xiu laughed. “Everyone actually used to meet up all the time, especially after updates, to talk about how the skills could be used and what combinations worked best. But as the competitive scene developed, we had less and less time, and information became far more guarded… In comparison to breaking down exact skill usage and timing preferences, even finding some unified answers on what ‘optimal’ was, talking over tactics like this really isn’t much.” Ye Xiu leaned back in his seat with a sigh, the picture of an old-timer recalling brighter days. “It makes sense that most people aren’t interested anymore, but it truly is a shame.”
Wang Jiexi thought back to those earlier meetings, in which he and his highly unconventional playstyle mostly sat next to Fang Shiqian and listened to him argue passionately about how wrong Ye Xiu’s healer meta was, and thought Ye Xiu might be misremembering how harmonious those meetings had been.
Then again, Fang Shiqian had definitely always secretly looked forward to shouting down the Glory Textbook, so maybe Ye Xiu felt the same. In fact, at some point a founding senior of Tiny Herb had joked that it wasn’t a real discussion meetup if it didn’t end with the two of them arguing over some healing thing no one else understood. Unfortunately, by the time Zhang Xinjie was prominent enough that he might have joined them, meta meetings had mostly become a thing of the past.
Not that Zhang Xinjie’s presence would have helped anyone else understand, necessarily, but it was at least slightly possible there would have been less shouting.
Even so, the golden generation had been implicitly invited to at least a few discussions in their rookie years, and the tacticians had fewer qualms about learning from each other than other pros—actively sought discussion, even, despite their differing ideals—so their own gatherings had started back then and they’d never found cause to stop. Of course, tactics were far more situational than finding a unified metagame, so arguing over theory really didn’t give away much. They’d long since learned each others’ preferences, but predicting how those would manifest through the complications of terrain and individual teammates’ choices was beyond what any mere discussion could give them.
“Tactics are usually less definitive,” Yu Wenzhou agreed now. “Although Captain Xiao’s performance this season has certainly come as close to perfect implementation of planning as anyone could get, I think.”
“Not really,” Xiao Shiqin said wryly. He used to feel, at least subconsciously, that the other tacticians were on a different plane from him—he could talk theory with them just as much, but when it came down to it they had talented, well-equipped teams to back their ideals, while he carefully turned being the underdog into strength. He had more confidence, now, in himself and in his team, but he was sure at least some of his success came from the fact that the other tacticians weren’t used to his style, yet. “Constant adjustment can definitely lead to more precision, but there’s still that lag between thought and implementation. Not to mention what happens if my messages are cut off before I can tell the others what to do about it.”
Although this was obviously a reference to Thunderclap’s match with Happy a few weeks before, Ye Xiu wouldn’t be the only one to try to force Xiao Shiqin to give up his commands now that it had proven effective.
“Even so, the control you’ve reached over the field is exceptional,” Zhang Xinjie commented, having finished handling their food order. “For your teammates to trust and follow your lead down to the exact facing of their characters, you must have put a great deal of work in.” Left unsaid was that Xiao Shiqin had only recently returned to his team at all, and some of the main players had even changed since then. Was one summer really long enough to establish the level of rapport that would let Xiao Shiqin micromanage his players without causing disruptive resentment?
“My team has always been overwhelmingly accepting, perhaps more so than I deserve,” Xiao Shiqin said with obvious fondness. “And for those who were less inclined, I suppose results speak. I like to think that my confidence in their abilities has brought us closer, too.” He tapped his finger thoughtfully on the table’s edge, clearly considering the current state of his team, now almost halfway through the season. “Still, I’d say that it’s because this is so new that we have to send so many messages. When they get more used to the roles they can take and the general strategies I implement, a lot of smaller things will become habit. After all, Tyranny has the lowest number of messages sent in the Alliance, but I highly doubt you’re lacking precision.”
Of the members of Tyranny, only their youngest rookie and maybe their sixth player would need anything like guidance on positioning, however prone to precise planning Zhang Xinjie might be. On top of that, Zhang Xinjie was not Tyranny’s only shotcaller; although Han Wenqing no longer appeared in every team competition, it was often still his lead the team was following. For Zhang Xinjie to give the old generals precise instructions with every step would be a bit too much.
“There is still a bit of an adjustment period,” Zhang Xinjie said seriously, never one to gloss over details. “Especially for the team competitions that don’t involve Captain Han. I’m used to his setting the rhythm of the offense, and Zhang Jiale and Lin Jingyan have very different styles.”
“Yes, I feel that most of us have had a change in tempo recently,” Yu Wenzhou mused. “Yu Feng and Hanwen are nearly opposite ends of the spectrum for that kind of thing, the Unspecialized blitz couldn’t be farther from a Battle Mage and its slow spear, and Captain Wang is still working on gradually passing responsibility to his successor rather than leading the charge with his vice-captain healer. Naturally Captain Xiao and his intentional tempo-shifting count as well.”
“It is quite the change,” Jiang Botao followed up amiably. “You’ve been taking care of your hands, right, Senior Xiao? I probably communicate the most of anyone on my team, but I don’t think I come anywhere close to your recent numbers.”
Saying he communicated the most was putting it mildly; with a captain like Zhou Zekai, it was no surprise Samsara had the second-least number of messages sent after Tyranny. Jiang Botao might be on the chattier side when it came to communication, given his penchant for discerning his opponents’ states and leading them into his own rhythm with conversation, but in team competitions he was far more likely to fade into the background than push toward the spotlight with a running commentary.
“I don’t know how Huang Shaotian does it,” Xiao Shiqin laughed. “It’s definitely tiring for me to type so much, and my messages are still fairly short! Luckily my team works well with shorthand, or I wouldn’t have been able to try this style at all.”
His shorthand wasn’t completely developed yet, given how new he was to leading in this style, but it was coming along fairly well. Over time, he’d definitely find ways to communicate more efficiently. Though he’d done exceptionally well so far this season, Xiao Shiqin had already resolved to put more effort into forming a complete way of leading, so something as simple as being made a target couldn’t stop his team’s tactics cold.
“If only they’d approve voice chat,” Yu Wenzhou sighed. Even with the ever-chatty Huang Shaotian on his team, the freedom he’d gain by spending more of his limited hand speed on playing than typing would be more than worth it.
“If only they’d approve voice chat,” Xiao Shiqin immediately agreed. The sheer helplessness of wanting to say something but having to control one’s character instead was overwhelming.
In fact, after Xiao Shiqin it was likely Ye Xiu who sent the most messages of the tacticians—not because he needed to guide his team often, necessarily, but because he and the rest of Happy were far more relaxed about how they played. It wasn’t uncommon to see them joke around in even the team chat, where their opponents couldn’t see them at all. On the other hand, Happy had a larger proportion of rookies in their starting lineup than most, with the rest being fairly well-established older players; perhaps the steadiness with which these new players faced the stage had something to do with Happy’s casual and friendly atmosphere.
Ultimately, most things Ye Xiu did had more than one purpose, so it could just as easily be for fun as well as utility.
Either way, Ye Xiu didn’t express strong feelings about voice chat, despite the messages he sent and the number of inputs the Unspecialized required; whether or not he communicated by voice seemed to matter little to him.
The melancholy air of the ongoing voice chat debate was interrupted by the arrival of their food—Zhang Xinjie had, as one might expect, brought them to a local seafood restaurant with a wide variety of options, and they’d taken full advantage of that when ordering. Amidst the more cheerful serving of various dishes, Jiang Botao couldn’t help but mention his own view on the matter.
“I don’t know that voice chat would help me much,” he said, not without amusement. “As a team we already don’t communicate verbally often, but Little Zhou might actually find it harder to communicate if he felt obliged to do it out loud. At least shorthanded situation updates feel enough like part of the game that he doesn’t overthink his phrasing.”
“The immediacy might help Yingjie, though,” Wang Jiexi said thoughtfully; that he didn’t consider himself personally in need of the feature went unsaid, given Tiny Herb’s position as having sent the third-least number of messages in the Alliance this season. “I think for him typing is an extra step to communication he feels obliged to consider before committing to, whereas verbal acknowledgment or even thinking aloud might come more naturally to him. In any case, it would be easier to tell the difference between a longer message and a flustered pause if we could hear it.”
As usual, he was thinking about it from the perspective of helping his team develop more fully.
“Overall, I still feel that making best use of circumstances is more of a factor than communication for me,” Jiang Botao sighed. “The voice chat we’ve had in this event is nice enough, but if the odds are stacked against you it definitely won’t help much.”
Jiang Botao hadn’t realized the true nature of the earlier dodgeball competition, or rather the ramifications of its design, until far too late for his taste. He understood that Wei Chen had many more years of experience in the game than him, but more than once Jiang Botao’s decisions on how to stop his opponent had been inappropriate for the setting—relying on the assumption that his opponents would avoid damage despite the fact that one-hit-kill sandbags meant it hardly mattered how much health they lost—when adaptability was supposed to be his strength, and certainly was what he considered the most effective aspect of tactics. When it came down to it, a player’s condition at any specific time had far more weight than what might be their usual behavior, or any rigid aspects of the environment. Everything else could be ignored or avoided, but the mindset and abilities of the people playing could not.
Usually, he’d think voice chat would give him a greater array of methods to affect his opponent’s decision-making, but against Wei Chen he might as well not be speaking at all. It was a disheartening introduction to the feature.
“The odds aren’t the only thing that determine the results,” Xiao Shiqin, who probably had the greatest right to speak on this subject, refuted. “Even a non-optimal class composition can come out on top if the players move together or block the opponents’ coordination.”
“And capitalize on subconscious reactions,” Yu Wenzhou continued, clearly interested in the subject despite the fact that he hadn’t played. “For those who’ve played Glory long enough, dodging or avoiding certain skills has long become habit. With a one-hit-kill item, an opening like that would be more than enough.”
The dodgeball event was obviously just a silly minigame, but each of the tacticians had a variety of ideas about how they would address such a challenge, with or without their ideal class compositions or players. As usual, over time they ended up back in the realm of theoretical team competitions, arguing over which aspects of the conflict should receive focus first. Class composition and player skill was obvious, and most of them agreed easily enough that communication and coordination could make or break the engagement, but Yu Wenzhou favored predictive baiting while Jiang Botao thought affecting the opponents’ mood and adapting to counter it was a better opening, and Xiao Shiqin thought targeting the opponents’ coordination and breaking down communication would lead to the fastest defeat. Wang Jiexi thought giving the opponent no clear time to react in the first place was the theoretical ideal, and Zhang Xinjie, once he’d finished meticulously eating his favored dishes, applied that same meticulousness to how he’d face any situation: First determine the plan with the greatest chance of succeeding, then restrict the opportunities for the opponent to disrupt the plan, then take methodical action and correct for any deviations as things progressed.
In essence, it was the same as what could be seen in any of their matches during the season, but with a wider range of possible players to put in their imaginary lineup and passionate explanations of how sure, the opponents’ general intentions are important, but if they aren’t in a state to follow through on their usual brutal style what purpose is there in knowing that’s their standard, and even if we disagree on that we can both agree brushing over it with “minimizing deviations that arise from changing conditions” isn’t giving the relevant information enough credit, but “adapting the tempo and increasing area denial to counter individual actions” isn’t structured enough to count as a general plan…
Wang Jiexi felt that most of their theoretical situations didn’t have enough information for him to accurately draw up any plans of action, though the discussion itself would prove useful as a starting point for determining what Gao Yingjie gave most thought to later; Ye Xiu mostly followed along their arguments with amusement, offering how he’d handle a specific instance whenever it came up and inevitably further stirring the pot. By the end, though, most of them seemed to have a stronger grasp on what they’d place first in their lists of priorities—or possibly what they’d need from their teams to best work with their priorities—and with so many changes in what their various teams and shotcalling could offer this season that was certainly worth something.
When it came around to discussion of Ye Xiu’s shotcalling this season—a long way from the mess that was late season 7 and early season 8, but not much like the overbearing tyranny of his first seasons either, and the Challenger League had too much variability in match quality to give them all much of anything—and what he thought worth the most focus, Ye Xiu said, as usual, “whatever works.” The rest of them rolled their eyes internally at him because yes, of course, but what did he do that worked? Ye Xiu didn’t seem to prefer anything, his player rotations and arsenal of tactics so wide they might as well be from any category, but what exactly drove his decisions? Which of his choices did he think were best?
Yu Wenzhou looked at Ye Xiu’s style and saw versatility, a comprehensive understanding of everything about the game and his opponents’ core motivations, that he might predict and counter them. Zhang Xinjie looked at Ye Xiu’s style and saw overwhelming preparation, considering every angle or possibility and working consistently to match reality to his planning, always ready with a response. Xiao Shiqin looked at Ye Xiu’s style and saw coordination, a sum of ability greater than its parts once working in concert, theories brought to life in the team acting as one. Jiang Botao looked at Ye Xiu’s style and saw adaptability, someone who changed by the opponent and the day, someone capable of pulling others along with him, leading them into traps of their own making, turning every perceived disadvantage into advantage.
Wang Jiexi saw the crudest style, of course. As Ye Xiu said, whatever worked. Wang Jiexi himself was more about compromise—leading a team as the Magician was impossible, so instead he led as their crux, the pillar they could all rely on. He prepared thoroughly and let his plans unfold as they could, shoring up anywhere they fell short.
Wang Jiexi wouldn’t deny he’d learned from Ye Xiu, who’d been an unbeatable god when Wang Jiexi was still no more than Best Rookie, but he didn’t think they were much the same, either. Wang Jiexi was more all-encompassing and steady in how he led, once he’d settled into it, a calm center for his team to find strength in. Ye Xiu, whatever else he did, had a far more riling effect than any kind of calm; though the weight he carried was undoubtedly no lighter than Wang Jiexi’s, he did it with a casual kind of air Wang Jiexi could never effect.
Maybe that was it, then, just the difference in the way they held their confidence.
This wasn’t the first day they fell to talking about what Ye Xiu’s style could be best classified as, food finished long before the conversation could do the same, and Wang Jiexi knew Ye Xiu didn’t have the answer any more than they did. For him it really was just “whatever works”: He’d never confined himself to any way of thinking he thought was best. Maybe, in that way, he and Wang Jiexi were more alike than it looked, for all that the paths they took could be no further apart in appearance.
They left in good spirits, agreeing, as always, to disagree. Wang Jiexi looked up at the night sky and thought of flashiness and burning brightly, ends to means and means to ends, Fang Shiqian’s eternal grumbling about styles of healers and the indescribable look on his face when Wang Jiexi chose to seal the Magician, when they’d held their trophy once, twice, when he’d retired. Two stars shone bright in the sky’s watercolor black, and he thought about success, and how they all got there, and the auspices of victory.
(The next day was the All-Star team competition. Wang Jiexi and Ye Xiu had the same idea, to avoid it, but Zhang Xinjie wouldn’t let an event Tyranny hosted play out so meaninglessly; Ye Xiu found a compromise in an aggressive lineup that would, win or lose, finish the conflict quickly. In the end, whatever worked.
Onstage Ye Xiu was a metronome and Wang Jiexi once again a Magician, appearing where needed, striking as he wished, able to follow along indefinitely in any path he chose, knowing Ye Xiu wouldn’t lose track and the battle would shift around him. That was Ye Xiu’s style, maybe, to set a pace and bring the rest to follow, no more nor less than a method for those behind him to play as they could most comfortably.
For love of the game and the infinite permutations of humanity, there could be no category, so Ye Xiu’s decisions could never have one. Ye Xiu had a library of possibilities in his mind, an amalgam of endless experience that could only be gained by walking each avenue oneself, and he chose which to use to fit every player and circumstance around him. There was no ideology, no overarching absolute, and though the crude and straightforward had little relation to Wang Jiexi’s unconventional flare, he thought he could understand, a little, how it didn’t need one.
Whatever worked.)