2（1+2）
If you search for “rhythm game proposals” on Bilibili, you’ll find tons of pitch videos that showcase gameplay; many of those mechanics are ineffective innovations, messy, and unfocused. The ideas are well-intentioned, of course, but check back a year later, and many projects have vanished without a trace. Some never even reach development: after a few PPT slides showing off mechanics, they simply disappear.
Seeing this firsthand years ago, I asked myself: if I make a rhythm game, will the same thing happen to me? If it did, how would my collaborators view me, and how should I take responsibility for their expectations? So when I began developing “Domain Echoing”, I examined a wide range of music games and compared many systems before deciding on the core gameplay. I needed to ensure genuine innovation without being reckless or innovating for its own sake.
After that, I spent a month or two building a demo (just the level player) to verify the project’s feasibility. At first, I built a timing system that used BPM to convert music into beat intervals, so every animation stayed in sync with the rhythm. This was to ensure low latency, because in a rhythm game, accurate timing is everything.
When I thought I had built the most essential systems a rhythm game requires, I realized that a game’s quality goes far beyond that. What makes a rhythm game truly engaging is its sense of impact, the audiovisual experience of tapping the screen as the notes arrive. You only understand how difficult this is after trying it yourself. The hit sound can’t be too sharp or too dull; the effects must be simple yet clear. Every element took countless trials to get right. That feeling of “touch” is born from a unique combination of details, which differ from one game to another.
Only then did I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I posted a video online, found people interested in joining the next stages, and finally finished the game.
In cases like this, to leave as little to chance as possible, I always conduct meticulous research before making major decisions, doing everything I can to ensure my time isn’t wasted. My head is constantly buzzing with all kinds of ideas, many of them unrealistic. Without that validation step, I would lose a lot of time. This approach may be less efficient, but it’s part of who I am—and it’s still better than jumping on every impulse and, more often than not, failing.
3（8+3）
“I wanna learn music composition, do you have any advice?”
“Sure: start with music theory, and the rest gets much simpler.”
I’ve heard that countless times. Tutorials, Reddit threads, YouTube comments…they all say the same thing: learn the rules first, then break them. But I never really started that way. I’d argue real music composition isn’t about any of that; it doesn’t rely on fixed tracks to decide how elements should be arranged. It depends on one thing: QUALIA (the pure feeling of sound).
After a long day at school, I head straight to my room and boot up my computer. In my quiet room, the only sound is the desktop fan. I load a piano plugin, click in a few notes, and play them once. If something in the tune sounds off, I change it until it feels right, a little better each time. Like a looping algorithm, I keep breaking and rebuilding until it finally fits. Sometimes I don’t even wear headphones, because they make my ears feel stuffy. And just like that, I sink into the world of music composition.
That feeling is where everything begins for me. When I compose, I don’t think in chords or keys first; I think in the overall feel, how those emotions surge, and how the arrangement carries them. My mind is full of all kinds of ideas. Today I might want to write something lyrical; tomorrow it might be something aggressive. Sometimes I don’t know how to express those emotions, so I listen to other people’s music to see how they do it. I even tried imitating a composer almost obsessively, playing their track to 0.75× speed and dissecting every sound that appears. Through this process of trial and error, I eventually found a stable way of working that lets me turn out better music. Others might follow their teachers’ templates, but I’m self-taught, and apart from relying on the melodies I carry in my head, I have no “recipe” to follow.
I like to improvise, not because I reject structure, but because it keeps creation alive. It doesn’t conflict with my urge for perfection; it grounds me in the process. As a creator, I know that when I start noticing flaws in the works I once felt proud of, it means I’ve improved. I may never create perfect music, but one day I’ll create something that truly moves people.
6
My interest in computing began with games, but it’s grown into something much more. I’ve been playing games on a computer since kindergarten, mostly simple ones like Angry Birds. Back then, I had no idea how these games were created; the computer was just for fun. It wasn’t until elementary school, when I stumbled upon Dancing Line by chance, that everything changed.
I came across countless fan-made levels online and thought, “If other players can create these, why can’t I?” So, I dove into tutorials. In 2019, I was a complete beginner, and it could take hours to find the right resource. Many creators showcased their custom levels, but few shared their source code. Eventually, I found a video that briefly explained the code, and it used Unity. I downloaded it, though I barely understood what was happening. All I could do was copy every line of code, word for word.
After a lot of trial and error, I got the line in-game to move and the collision system to work. It might sound simple now, but for me, it felt like a breakthrough. After that, I kept following tutorials, learning by copying, and slowly, the code started to make sense. My programming journey began with copying, and from there, I started making things of my own.
Later, while downloading a Minecraft mod, I discovered GitHub and learned to use it. I continued making Dancing Line levels even after the game stopped updating, and by 2023, I was building my own indie rhythm game. Through these projects, I developed a solid set of programming skills.
Games have shaped 90% of my computing ability. But I’m just getting started. I’ll keep exploring this field because the excitement of making something work, now and in the future, remains my strongest motivation.
7
I believe my greatest contribution to the school was actually made unintentionally. It began as an impulse, yet the outcome was unexpectedly significant. When I first entered 11th grade, I enrolled in AP Research. The course seemed straightforward: just write a 5000-word paper and deliver a presentation. But things rarely go smoothly. I agonized over my topic for ages, unable to find one that both interested me and suited my abilities. Then I stumbled upon a perfect essay of a 5/5 that sparked my inspiration. It detailed how to optimize the lighting system for the school stage. Instantly, I thought that I could tackle something right here. Our school is small, and the cafeteria is always crowded, forcing everyone to wait in long lines for meals. I wondered if I could tackle this issue using my expertise in mathematical modeling tools to alleviate the situation.
After obtaining my instructor’s approval, I began working on this research topic. Of course, the research wasn’t easy. Due to school privacy policies, I couldn’t use any automated tools for assistance. To collect data, I spent hours sitting in front of surveillance monitors, manually counting each person entering and exiting the cafeteria while recording the times. The monitoring room was especially cold in winter, making that period incredibly tough. Later, things improved significantly. I simulated the data and ultimately derived highly effective conclusions using queueing theory models. At this stage, I hadn’t considered how this might benefit the school; it was purely for my coursework. But my advisor prompted me, asking why I hadn’t submitted the research to the school. So I emailed it to the principal. To my surprise, the school adopted some of the measures. While they didn’t completely solve the congestion problem, our campus is simply too small, and the improvements were noticeable.
Naturally, my ambitions didn’t stop there. In the final phase of that study, I incorporated a universal model applicable to other cafeterias. By simply marking the entrance, exit, and service window locations and recording people traffic, this model could generate practical solutions, including but not limited to opening new windows or implementing time-based customer throttling.