From October of 2022 to May of 2023, I served as VP of Design and Product for the now-defunct VShojo. To say this has been an emotionally complicated week—watching the company’s public implosion and the revelations about those I once trusted—would be putting things very lightly. So I’ve waited until I’ve sorted through my own feelings before writing them down in the safest place I have, this blog, which is saying something given how reactionary I usually am with my writing.
If you are in need of some context, a look through Rima Evenstar’s tweets will catch you up.
What I will say before I begin is that this post is a small footnote in the larger proverbial book that is being written about my now non-existent former employer. My story doesn’t matter in the larger scheme of things. While I was wronged in a horrible fashion, it does not hold a modicum of relevancy compared to the talents, artists, and contractors who were hurt by Justin and VShojo.
I’m a storyteller, and I have a story to tell—here.
The Draw
On August 15th, I will officially hit two decades as a working professional in the tech industry. It was that long ago when I worked under my first tech CEO, Mark Zuckerberg, having been hired as the second designer at Facebook. Since then, I’ve been employed by a gamut of personalities: Matt Mullenweg at Automattic, Janus Friis at Vdio, Chris Wanstrath at GitHub, and Emmett Shear at Twitch.
I met Justin Ignacio, better known as Gunrun, during my time at Twitch from 2014 to 2016. The draw to him was pretty simple: he was a young Filipino in tech, and there weren’t many of those. During my first decade in the tech industry, I was not only the only Filipino at many of these companies, but one of a handful of people of Asian descent. So in 2023, still deep into the recovery from my own attempt at being a CEO, I was contacted by Justin and a mutual colleague from Twitch to join the company and assist with some burgeoning software efforts.
The company that welcomed me was unlike any I had worked for previously. Co-workers that were of Asian descent were in the majority; I was working for a fellow countryman. On top of that, I had a deep understanding of the underpinnings of VTubers since the entire culture extended from that of Japanese Idols. My wife had gotten me into Hello! Project in 2005, whose allure brought us to Japan every year from 2009 to 2020. Every time that a Hello! Project group came to the States, my wife and I, and then later a team of us, would put on a fan party, a total of 5 being produced out-of-pocket from 2009 to 2014. So, you’re telling me that not only would I have graduated from being a soldier in the web design trenches, where I was infamously stuck, but I’d be able to leverage 14 years of knowledge as an idol fan as well?
This was my dream job.
The Experience
There really is no timeline to speak of here. It has been long enough since my time at the company that the following paragraphs are more “points in time” than anything else. So, if they feel disjointed, that’s because they are.
Part I: Mirai and the Bad
My 1-on-1s with Justin were… different from past managers. As I said, Justin being a Filipino and a former co-worker that I got along with opened things up between us. Some of the time, we would talk about our families in the Philippines. Weirdly enough, he talked about his father’s lineage having been involved in the Filipino equivalent of the mafia. My family back home was also going through very real and dangerous times, which will come into play later in this story, unfortunately. I felt comfortable talking to Justin. He felt like somebody I could confide in and somebody that would understand where I was coming from based on my background.
He was excited to introduce me to different folks that had shown interest in “Project Baby”—which stemmed from the popular usage of the words “mama” and “papa” in the industry—or Mirai as I would later decide to name it. I had seen Mirai as the second chance to create a product that would help a community collaborate and connect, as my first attempt, Altair, had not survived. It was to be a utility to promote and connect the VTuber ecosystem with attribution on steroids. In my mind, you could click on Ironmouse, see all of her models, all of artists, riggers, who contributed to those models, explore what models those same creatives made—the works. Through Mirai, there’d be organic promotion of every branch of the tree. Unsurprisingly, Mirai’s logo was a tree.
Through this progression, I was introduced to people that I would ultimately come to despise, representatives from one of VShojo’s investors, Anthos. To say the people I met there were polar opposites of me would be putting it lightly. There was fierce dissent between the way I wanted Mirai to take shape, through holistic servicing of the user base, and the obvious monetization strategy that they expected. Given what we know now about the company’s finances, I’m not surprised. But I wasn’t surprised then either. I knew how venture capitalists worked, as Altair didn’t take venture capital either.
This would ultimately continue throughout most of my time there regarding this project. Anthos clearly didn’t understand what my vision was. Another representative was brought in, things got worse. But a good manager, a good chief executive should stand up for the people they believe in, right? I thought that’s what Justin was doing, because he told me as such. I didn’t bend because Justin would say to me:
They don’t control me. I own the majority of this company. Y’all fine.
I believed him.
I need to pause here and share something deeply personal, because I must make clear where my head was. In late 2022, my aunt was murdered in a politically motivated hit-and-run attack meant for her younger brother, the mayor of my family’s hometown. The attack was premeditated by a person who shares my last name—I refuse to call him my relative—and carried out by hired lackeys. I was suffering from diagnosed MDD (major depressive disorder), in mourning having not recovered from the loss of my last company, and now having had the heart of my father’s side of the family ripped away. A few months later, I would lose my cat of 19 years, Willow, to cancer.
Mirai was my dream, but also my demise.
Some of this could’ve been preordained if you took a look at what was happening in my life at the time, and if you choose to put more blame on me for what follows, I won’t disagree with you. In May, I had approached both of the people that had brought me into the company, Justin, and the aforementioned co-worker. I confided in both of them that I was struggling to produce frontend code. Both meetings ended with a sense of support, that they understood where I was coming from and that we would work through it.
That Monday, I was fired.
Remember, I was brought into the company in a VP role, with no explicit expectation of having to produce code. My title wasn’t web designer or web developer. If it was, I wouldn’t have taken the job. But what hurt me the most was the feeling of betrayal. There were no warnings. Both people had every chance to tell me I was underperforming and to help me course-correct. But no, Justin couldn’t look me in the eye when he read me the termination agreement. Apek, the CFO, in his video box, for what it’s worth, had the beginnings of a smirk. Maybe he was happy to be rid of a salary, even though that money wouldn’t have gone to talent anyway. Hell, I wouldn’t’ve been surprised if Anthos had a hand in it too.
And, that was it. My dream job, gone.
Later, I would be told that the firing wasn’t really mentioned, almost as if they tried to sweep it under the rug, and that somebody had claimed responsibility through an “oops.” It’s all context, really. The context being that Justin lacked a spine.
Part II: What’s Worth Remembering
If all you were here for was how I was hurt in this situation, then Part I is all you needed. Earlier in the week, I posted an Instagram story saying something along the lines of:
This sounds incredibly selfish to me—but I am sick and tired of having my achievements tainted. What is there for me to be proud of when the company I did the work for dies an unfathomable death, or the leaders just turn out to be incredibly shit human beings?
Friends that responded to that story made me think a little differently about it. I did the work for the people it was meant for, not the people who would ultimately profit from it.
To that end, there were some amazing things I was able to accomplish during my time at VShojo.
First and foremost is the 2023 Anime Expo Booth, which in hindsight should’ve probably never existed. I would’ve rather seen that money go to talent. But, since I was given the chance to head that project, I put my all into it. I’ve written about it at length, as it signifies one of my greatest achievements as a creative. That booth was the culmination of my love for VShojo’s talent, and the fans who I felt deserved the best way to meet their idols. While I never got to see it, because I was fired the Monday after I had previewed the LED screens we’d use for it, the fan photos and videos made me extremely emotional.
With the help of my wife, I was able to help guide the direction for the outfits the talent would use for their live concert, Candy Pop Explosion. We were able to help bring more of each talent’s personality into their outfits while still preserving a group uniformity, really leaning into how J-pop idols (at least those from Hello! Project) did it.
I was able to help with Henya’s Debut, providing quality assurance for her branding. I became a web and graphic design mentor for a couple of the Talent Managers. I was able to give a dear friend the chance to focus on making art instead of having to drown making UIs.
And as an idol fan, I was able to do what I had always wanted to do, and have a hand in seeing talent I care about succeed. There is no greater joy than creating something for a person you care about and having them throw that love back at you for doing so. Despite never getting to feel that directly because of how Justin ran the company, putting that wall between us and the talent, I still felt the excitement when talent would indirectly show their approval for my work while I watched from my desk. For whatever that’s worth, for whatever positivity my efforts could’ve provided, those are the memories I want to hold on to.
In Closing
I’ve worked for a who’s who of chief executives. What’s not shocking to me is that each of them displayed their own flavor of sociopathic behavior. What is shocking is the degree of disregard and abject disrespect for the people they’re supposed to serve and protect. When I am wronged, I am vengeful. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find solace in others seeing at least one of the two people I mentioned above in the same way I see them.
I can’t help but feel guilt either, even though I was doing what I was told, even though it was only through DMs, even though I wasn’t told why: I was the one that served as the copywriter and designer of the images that marked the exits of Vei, Silvervale, and Nyanners.
No words I can write here can properly describe the pain and anger I feel for what was done to people in VShojo’s orbit to an almost universal degree. I felt the anger when Silvervale talked about not having any support from the company. That anger multiplying during the one chance I got to meet talent through VR Chat, saying that they wanted to feel like they were a part of something, that they wanted to interact with the rest of the staff. We wanted, begged, for information, for communication, for transparency. We didn’t get it, that didn’t stop us from working our asses off for the talent. I can only claim to be a small part of that, but the want to do right by the talent was there nonetheless.
I don’t think those assholes realize how many times they stabbed my idol heart. Over code. I think that’s partly why I’m a bit vengeful—because they crossed my WOTA line.
After multiple attempts to continue working with VTubers—including three separate attempts to get a job at Mythic—my orbit has drifted away from this community, but my love for it hasn’t. Hell, I even have my own model. My time around talent proved to me that this medium can be a force for good. I have a long standing affinity for talent who are trying day-in and day-out to bring smiles and joy to the lives of others, as I’ve been a recipient of those efforts since 2005. We cheer the talent. We cherish the talent. We protect the talent. It’s true in J-pop idoldom, and it’s true here as well.
I will continue to support the industry in whatever way I can, because it has earned its place in my heart of hearts.