The following article is a translation from a Chinese WeChat public account: Vista Hydrogen Business

Spent ¥19.9 on an English Jubensha game - It was scarier than a haunted house

As someone who regularly plays script murder (剧本杀, a popular Chinese role-play mystery game), every so often Xiaohongshu pushes me new ways to play. From group play sessions themed around hit dramas like the costume epic Till the End of the Moon, to pitch-black live-action clue-hunting with NPCs, I’ve seen it all and scrolled past without blinking—until I saw this: English script murder.

Huh? English? Script murder?

Suddenly, I remembered the sheer terror of IELTS speaking exams. So regular script murder isn’t enough anymore? Now we have to crank up the spice with English?

English script murder mostly takes place online. Players who share their experiences often talk about practicing spoken English, and shop owners openly state their main goal: to create an immersive language environment where people can train their oral English while playing.

When I play in Chinese, I’m the one pointing fingers and unmasking culprits. In English? I just go “blah blah blah” and freeze.

Reactions from players are mixed. Some say it’s a great environment for speaking English—you get to open your mouth and still enjoy your favorite game, what’s not to love? Others complain that after three hours, they managed to squeeze out only four phrases: “not me,” “is he,” “I don’t know,” and “why.”

To find out what exactly this English script murder craze was about, I did my homework on Xiaohongshu and successfully booked myself an online session.

And then began the nervous waiting period—like déjà vu before a high school English exam.

Round 01: “Are you gay?”

After adding the host on WeChat, I was pulled into the “English Script Murder Group 16” (over a hundred members already). Following the usual routine, I clicked into the mini-program to choose a script.

Each script came with a difficulty label and genre. To accommodate players struggling with English, there were even “baby versions”—no rare vocabulary, simple and easy to follow.

The description said “high school English level is enough,” but given how long it’s been since I used spoken English, I cautiously chose an “easy version” script called Love Letter (definitely not because it was the cheapest one).

Since the game was online, the host (the DM) quickly pulled the players and DM into a small WeChat group and posted updates in the larger group. To help newbies, certain rounds were even labeled as “beginner-friendly.”

You could also join just as an observer: for 9.9 yuan you could sit in without ever unmuting, watch from a god’s-eye view, and basically practice listening comprehension. But honestly, I strongly suspect these lurkers are just there to laugh at the players.

Strangely enough, I thought the host would group players with similar English levels for a better experience. Nope. No entry test, no restrictions. Terrifying thought: what if this clown (me) gets matched with someone at TEM-8 (China’s toughest English exam for majors)?

As spectators trickled in, the awkward tension had me curling my toes in embarrassment. I quickly roped in a friend with better spoken English to join me.

The DM explained the basic rules in the group chat. Same as Chinese script murder, you can’t “metagame” or break immersion, and you definitely can’t swear “Chinese people don’t cheat Chinese people” in moments of desperation.

They even shared a cheat sheet of common English phrases for script murder. Suddenly I remembered my high school English teacher’s favorite saying: “Sharpening your spear right before battle—it’s better than nothing.”

Everything ready, Love Letter finally began. Since it was easy mode, the story was short: Carl, a college student, receives a scandalous love letter signed by his classmate Alice. Five students connected to the letter are now gathered, and we must find the real culprit who forged it.

Sure enough, right before the game started, the DM dropped a Tencent Meeting link. A bad feeling washed over me. Reading the PDF script in the chat box—it felt just like those dreaded English reading comprehension tests.

The DM fluently introduced the story background and then—my nightmare—asked each of us to introduce ourselves in character. One by one, the named characters stumbled through their identities. A spectator typed in the chat: “Feels like doing a class presentation…”

When self-introductions ended, the DM guided us into free discussion. After a few seconds of silence, Alice jumped in to clear her name. Her English was so fluent it stunned the rest of us into mute panic. My friend secretly messaged me: “Alice’s English is insane. I might as well just shut up.”

But hey, we paid for this—so we had to get the full experience. We each asked questions, stumbling through, and within forty minutes we had figured out everyone’s motives.

Then came the evidence-collecting phase: 5 players, 10 numbered clues, each person choosing two. The DM privately sent us PDFs. Usually by this point the culprit is obvious. But we spent another hour discussing the evidence—really just practicing English—awkward silences everywhere as we pieced together the timeline.

Maybe sensing we were circling the truth, the DM stepped in again: everyone could ask her one yes/no question. After a few clarifying questions, it was time to vote. All five of us pointed to the same suspect—including the suspect themself.

Case closed. The DM announced our success. What I thought would be a long session ended in under two hours.

Apart from the alternating silence and stammered English, the other background noise came from the 9.9-yuan spectators slipping in and out, occasionally spamming “hhhhh” (Chinese onomatopoeia for laughter).

The only real “climactic moment” was when Alice nervously asked Carl: “Are you gay?”

After the game, my friend and I did the math. No venue costs. The only expenses were the host’s time and the script. For our round: 5 players at 16.9 yuan each (originally 19.9, minus 3 yuan for newbies) plus 8 spectators. That’s 163.7 yuan revenue for under two hours.

With multiple DMs, if the shop runs five sessions a day, they’re pocketing over 800 yuan daily.

Business opportunities really are everywhere. My friend said: “Overseas online classes cost hundreds of thousands. Here we spent a few bucks for more than an hour of speaking and listening practice. We got our money’s worth!”

Round 02: How much further can script murder go?

Leaving the Tencent Meeting, I thought that was the end of my English script murder journey—until I got a survey from the DM: “How do you feel about the format?” “Any suggestions?”

I sighed. Sympathy for the overworked hosts welled up in me—players get fresher and fresher experiences, but running these businesses just keeps getting harder.

I remembered a small script murder shop near my home, tucked inside a residential building. I went once with friends, had a decent time. The DM often messaged later to invite us back, but we never went.

One day we suddenly thought of it, reached out on WeChat—only to hear: “Sorry, we’ve closed down…”

So script murder has gotten that hard to keep alive?

Curious, I contacted my friend Xiao Jiang, who worked as a DM during the golden era (2017–2019). After hearing my question, he replied: “Script murder? That’s just a relic of the times now.”

And he might be right. With social strategy games like Goose Goose Duck and Blood on the Clocktower booming, script murder already feels old-fashioned. The model keeps evolving—classic whodunit plots, live-action sets popularized by the variety show Who’s the Murderer, immersive experiences sprouting everywhere. The pace of change is dizzying.

On English script murder, Xiao Jiang said it’s basically an offshoot of the education industry’s survival tactics. He even guessed the idea came from English training programs. After all, script murder itself originated abroad—so in a way, this is going back to the roots.

Script murder DMs have now become the reemployment center for English majors and drama students.

Xiao Jiang told me that back in 2017, script murder was completely different. Imported as “murder mystery” games, they were all hardcore reasoning scripts. Most weren’t even licensed—players just printed copies, with characters bearing awkwardly translated English names. The only real issue back then? Everyone wanted to play, no one wanted to be the DM who just handed out clues.

I remember that too. Five or six years ago, my friends and I would spend a few yuan online for hundreds of digital scripts. Sometimes we didn’t even print them, just squinted at walls of text on our phones. I recall playing one called Adrift on the Stormy Sea in a café near home. The shop owner hovered nearby listening in for hours, then quietly asked at the end: “Next time, can you let me join? Free coffee on the house…”

After the industry matured, subgenres like emotional dramas and horror stories emerged and spread.

Since entering China in 2016, script murder has grown at breakneck speed, hitting over 10 billion yuan by 2019—a 68% increase year on year. By 2021, the market was worth 17.02 billion yuan, projected to reach 23.89 billion in 2022.

According to Xiao Jiang, by 2018 pirated scripts were already disappearing. Publishers cracked down, and players demanded higher quality. For a shop to succeed, it needed exclusive “city-limited” scripts—only three shops per city could own one. To get them, shops had to attend script murder expos and compete.

To fight piracy, publishers created subtle differences across each copy, so if a pirated version appeared, they could trace it back to the source shop. Getting one required strict checks on sales and integrity.

Though he no longer works as a DM, Xiao Jiang still plays regularly. Switching from host to player, he’s felt the industry’s evolution firsthand.

“I see two big trends. First, the market now favors emotional and performance-based scripts. Hardcore reasoning used to dominate, but now it’s been overtaken. Second, since script murder itself is hard to innovate, differentiation has to come through smarter mechanics and more immersive acting.”

But that push into performance blurs the line between script murder, board games, and escape rooms.

Xiao Jiang said many shops today run “scripts” that barely qualify as script murder anymore—closer to board games. When these first appeared, players resisted calling them script murder, but authors insisted: “They’re all games, why get hung up on definitions? As long as it’s fun, that’s enough.”

Owning a limited script is only step one. Presentation matters most. You can’t change the text, but shops have wide creative freedom in staging it. The same script can feel completely different in two venues.

Closures aren’t that common—most struggling shops just transfer ownership. Partly it’s market conditions, but it’s also natural selection. With so many other games now, the casual crowd has thinned. The common sentiment: “I’ve been in meetings all day at work—why would I spend my free time in another meeting?”

To survive, shops are hugging big-brand partnerships.

In August 2022, NINES Mystery teamed up with Meituan Hotels to launch Flower Bay Adventure, an immersive puzzle game staged in an inn within a scenic park. They’re developing other themes too—like a two-day one-night hotel mystery, or collaborations with IPs like Fantasy Westward Journey.

I joked to Xiao Jiang that I’m still waiting for a massive Story of Zhen Huan immersive script murder. He immediately agreed: “Who wouldn’t?”

Script murder has become a plug-and-play format for cultural tourism projects. The Summer Palace, Beihai Park, and Prince Gong’s Mansion all offer “traditional culture” themed scripts. But honestly? Once I hear “traditional culture,” my interest drops by half.

“So many are cashing in on the script murder buzz—how is it still struggling?”

Xiao Jiang shook his head. “It’s because it’s not hot anymore that they need IP partnerships. Plus, the new government review system makes publishing scripts harder. With scenic spots and cultural tie-ins, it’s easier to pass review.”

He recalled playing a Forbidden City co-branded puzzle board game. His verdict? Too forced. Heavy on cultural education, light on actual fun.

Even museum and scenic tie-ins aren’t enough. To survive, shops are looking further.

In the past year, big brands jumped on the bandwagon. KFC partnered with Fliggy to launch a “Detective Bucket Mystery Season.” Estée Lauder collaborated with Ming Detective to release a fantasy romance script based on Eternal Love. Even foreign brands wanted in: in 2021, luxury whisky Macallan teamed up with TakiPlay to host a “mystery dinner party.”

But despite this flowering across industries, no single “top” script murder brand has emerged. Shops rely on publishers for scripts and compete fiercely through performance. The result? Certain emotional dramas are best at shop X, certain horror stories only shine at shop Y, and certain mechanic-heavy games are only fun with DM Z.

From the outside, it looks like a thriving ecosystem. Inside, shops are competing so hard that some brag: “All our NPCs have taken acting classes.”

With the market this saturated, English script murder suddenly makes perfect sense.

It’s not so much a new genre as a new way for young people to find “study buddies.” However fancy the formats get, script murder at its core is about socializing.

“English script murder” wins on novelty. After hearing my awkward experience, Xiao Jiang was just as curious as I’d been before playing: “Sounds fresh—how do I sign up? I want to try too.”

For most young people, the point of script murder is simple: have fun. Gather some friends after work, relax, meet new people, reconnect with old ones. Just like over May Day holiday, my friends and I went to Inner Mongolia, skipped the tourist grind, and played script murder three days straight.

As comedian Hulan once joked: the scariest escape room for middle-aged people would be one where you clock in, then watch NPCs work overtime in cubicles, complete with office notification sounds. That’s what real “immersive experience” feels like.

English murder mystery roleplay games are pretty much the same — it’s all about that immersive awkwardness.