I was lost in the neon streets of Zenless Zone Zero when a single comparison caught my eye. Suddenly, the fluid animations felt less like innovation and more like an echo. As I dug through the developer's original post, the weight of the accusation became impossible to ignore.
The Glitch in the Familiar
The blue light of my monitor was the only thing cutting through the 2 AM darkness. I was deep in the neon streets of Zenless Zone Zero, mesmerized by the fluid animations and the polished, high-budget sheen of the world. Everything felt expensive and complete.
A notification chimed on my phone, breaking the rhythm of the gameplay. I saw a video title that stopped my scrolling: "MiHoYo Copied This." I hesitated, the cursor hovering over the link, before clicking.
The screen split into side-by-side comparisons between the new MiHoYo title and an obscure indie project called Ouros[1]. My stomach dropped. The character designs and the way the menus transitioned were not just similar; they were hauntingly identical.
I looked back at my game screen, trying to find a way to dismiss it as mere coincidence. I wanted to believe the developers had simply reached the same aesthetic conclusion through independent effort. But the evidence was too precise. The developer claimed the two games are basically the same[1], and as I watched the video, I could not argue with the visual overlap.
It felt like a sudden, sharp betrayal. I had spent weeks praising the game's unique style, only to realize that the very style I admired might be a stolen shadow. It was a heavy feeling, like a stone settling in my pocket.
I am not a lawyer, and I do not have the technical expertise to judge the comparisons of code structures and puzzle mechanics[1] presented in the video. I am just a player who has spent hours in both of these digital worlds. I want to believe the best of the creators I follow, but the visual evidence was staring me in the face.
This is not an isolated incident for the studio. This marks the second time in a single month[1] that MiHoYo has faced accusations of ripping off an indie project. The cycle of these claims is a tired one in the industry, yet this time, the resemblance felt too deliberate to ignore.
The Anatomy of a Claim
I spent the next several hours digging through the developer's original post. The words were not fueled by the heat of anger, but by a profound, heavy exhaustion. He described years of labor spent building the aesthetic of Ouros, only to watch a massive studio release a polished version of that same dream[1].
Every detail I scrutinized felt like a mirror held up to the screen. The color palettes and specific iconography were not merely similar; they were nearly identical. The developer even provided comparisons of puzzle mechanics and code structures[1] that made the claim feel impossible to dismiss. It was a staggering display of similarity that left me caught between awe at the precision and disgust at the implication.
I found myself thinking about my own creative work. I know the feeling of being moved by a stranger's vision and using it to fuel my own. But where does inspiration end and theft begin? If a giant has the resources to refine a small creator's idea into something more profitable, is that progress or just a more efficient form of plunder?
This question haunted me as I scrolled through the technical evidence. I felt a strange guilt for enjoying the high-fidelity animations of the new game while knowing they might be built on someone else's foundation. It is difficult to celebrate a masterpiece when you suspect the blueprints were stolen.
I could almost see the indie developer in his own darkened room, watching his life's work become a footnote in a corporate success story. His frustration was not just about the loss of potential revenue. It was about the theft of recognition, the quiet erasure of a creator's unique voice by a much louder machine.
There is a massive power imbalance at play here. MiHoYo is a titan of the industry, a studio with enough reach to reshape markets. The indie developer is a single voice in a vast wilderness, and no lawsuit has been filed[1] to bridge that gap. The accusation remains a cry into the void, a plea for visibility that may never receive a formal response.
Living with the Ambiguity
I close the browser tab, but the image of the side-by-side comparison remains burned into my mind. The game icon on my desktop still glows with that vibrant, polished light. I find myself wanting to click it, to return to the seamless animations and the crisp UI, even though I know what I saw. The cognitive dissonance is exhausting. I love the product, but I hate the process that seemingly birthed it.
This is not an isolated incident in a vacuum. It is part of a recurring pattern where massive studios scrape ideas from small creators[1], refining them through sheer capital and moving on with the momentum. The small developers are left with the scraps of attention, watching their unique mechanics and code structures[1] become features in a global blockbuster. They provide the blueprint, and the titans provide the polish.
I cannot unsee the parallels. Every time I navigate a menu or encounter a specific transition in Zenless Zone Zero, I see the ghost of Ouros. The magic of the discovery is broken. It is not because the gameplay is lacking, but because the context has shifted. The story behind the pixels matters more than the pixels themselves.
I realize now that the truth does not require a verdict. There has been no formal statement from MiHoYo, and no lawsuit has been filed[1] to settle the score. There is only this lingering, quiet doubt.
I pick up my controller. My hand hovers over the start button for a long moment. I do not press it. I leave the game running on the screen, a silent testament to the theft. I turn off the monitor. The room goes dark. I sit in the silence, wondering if I will ever be able to play it again.
