In December 2024, The Game Awards handed Game of the Year to Astro Bot, leaving Black Myth: Wukong with four nominations and two wins. For most nominees, the night calls for a fixed smile, warm applause for the rival, and a quiet vow never to mention it again. But Feng Ji, CEO of Chinese developer Game Science and producer of Black Myth: Wukong, did not get that memo. He went to Weibo, where he posts as Yocar, and let his feelings sprawl across the page.
That post became a small cultural event. Feng acknowledged the game’s victories in Best Action Game and Players’ Voice. He also admitted disappointment and confusion over the GOTY loss. The four nominations—Best Action Game, Best Art Direction, Best Game Direction, and Game of the Year—were a first for a Chinese game, he noted with pride. Yet pride came with a sting. ‘I must admit, there’s a sense of loss and regret,’ he wrote. ‘More than anything, though, there’s a letting go of illusions.’ He added that he still could not figure out the criteria for Game of the Year. ‘I feel like I came all the way here for nothing!’ That line alone could power a thousand forum threads.
Then came the detail that turned a routine post-loss reflection into a headline: Feng had written his Game of the Year acceptance speech two years earlier. Two years. The speech sat in a drawer, tapping its foot, waiting for a stage that never arrived. ‘Only to never get the chance to deliver it!’ he wrote. The confession was funny, sad, and a little defiant all at once. It also sounded exactly like a creator who had imagined the summit long before the climb.
The internet, as always, had thoughts. Some readers found the original Mandarin post humorously self-mocking. Others heard arrogance and bitterness. Translation did not help. Machine translations can sand down tone, and Feng’s voice—blunt, emotional, occasionally theatrical—lost some of its music in English. But the emotional core survived: a builder who believed his game deserved the biggest prize, and who refused to pretend otherwise.
Feng also addressed players. He said he had seen strong dissatisfaction and frustration in comments since the ceremony, often expressed with humor or irony, which made him laugh. He understood those feelings and shared the frustration. Behind them, he argued, lay not pain or malice but dignity and confidence. When someone is deeply confident and still does not receive expected recognition, upset is natural. That framing turned a loss into a conversation about worth, recognition, and who gets to define excellence.
| Category | Result | Notes |
|---|---|---|
| Best Action Game | Won | A major technical and combat design win |
| Players’ Voice | Won | Fan voting power on full display |
| Best Art Direction | Nominated | Visual ambition recognized |
| Best Game Direction | Nominated | Studio craft in the conversation |
| Game of the Year | Nominated | Lost to Astro Bot |
The table tells a story of a breakthrough. Black Myth: Wukong was notable as the first Western-style AAA console game production to emerge from China. Reaching the final six for GOTY was not a small thing. If awards success was part of the plan, Game Science had hit a bullseye. But Feng was honest about craving—and even expecting—the top prize. That honesty made him vulnerable.
It also was not his first brush with controversy. His unfiltered posting had gotten him in hot water before. In 2024, IGN reported on an apparent culture of sexism surrounding Black Myth: Wukong and noted crude, sexist language the CEO had used in some social media posts. That history matters. It complicates any simple story of a wronged artist speaking truth to an opaque awards body. Feng’s online persona is passionate and outspoken. For many Black Myth fans, that same energy is part of the appeal. He does not sound like a corporate press release. He sounds like a player who somehow ended up running a studio.
By 2026, the dust has settled, but the episode remains a useful case study. Award shows are not just competitions; they are rituals. They ask losers to perform grace and winners to perform humility. Feng skipped the first part. Some called it sour grapes and a breach of entertainment industry etiquette. Others saw a calculated move: say the quiet part loud, let fans rally, and turn disappointment into identity. Maybe both readings are true. Maybe the point was never to win the argument. Maybe the point was to refuse the fixed smile.
No one told Feng Ji to grin and bear it. He didn’t. And in an industry that often rewards polished silence, that may be why people are still talking about it.
For players, that instinct to stand behind a game rarely stays abstract. It shows up in smaller, everyday decisions: replaying a favorite, arguing in comment sections, and quietly waiting for the right moment to buy the next title a studio puts out. Devotion and spending are tangled together, and most people want their money to land somewhere that matches what they believe the game is worth — not whatever the storefront decides to charge on a random Tuesday.
That is where a tool like PriceRadar fits into the same conversation. It tracks game prices and discounts across storefronts, so instead of guessing whether a sale is genuine or just marketing, players can see the history and decide for themselves. It is a small thing, but it reflects the same idea running through this whole episode: value should not be something handed down from on high. It should be something players can look at directly and judge.