[MORNING CALM TALES] Descending into Korea's first PC bangs

A personal essay recalls a first visit to a Seoul PC bang in 1998, when the author went there with students to play StarCraft. The basement game room is described as dim, smoky, crowded, and intensely focused, with rows of computers and people absorbed in play. The visit is framed as a glimpse of a hidden underground world that reflected Korea’s rapidly changing digital culture during the Asian financial crisis.

The PC bang visit took place in 1998 with several students, and the author went there to play StarCraft rather than to use the internet.

The PC bang was near Myongji University and was located by a staircase descending into a basement.

The room had rows of computers, a counter, instant noodles, soda, cigarette smoke, and the hum of fans and circuitry.

The author says PC bangs were the cheapest way to access the internet in Korea, especially during the Asian financial crisis.

The author compares the gaming experience to a tiny sci-fi war movie and says the students encouraged a retry after the first game ended quickly.

Published Sep 5, 2026 5:30 am KST

People's faces are blurred in a photo paired with an article about gaming addiction, published in The Korea Times, Aug. 26, 2005. Korea Times Archive

The first time I went to a PC bang in Korea, it wasn’t for the internet.

It was 1998, and I went with several of my students to play StarCraft, a game they raved about the way Americans talked about the Super Bowl.

Like every other trend that swept the nation, PC bangs were appearing faster than a pop-up window on your computer screen. They were the cheapest way of accessing the internet in Korea, especially at the height of the Asian financial crisis.

I knew what PC meant — personal computer. A bulky monitor and CPU that clicked and whirred, and occasionally froze for no reason.

In Korea, bang means room, a simple word, functional and to the point.

The PC bang we went to was located in a neighborhood of traditional shops, coffee houses, eateries, pharmacies and a traditional medicine shop with a strange-looking apparatus inside — less a pharmacy than a set piece from an old Frankenstein movie. The street was bright, with signs in Hangeul stacked like glowing dominoes. Food smells drifted through the air — dumplings, spicy rice cakes, charcoal and grilled meat — keeping me rooted in the present the way Korean streets always did.

My students led the way with quiet swagger, as if they were escorting me to an important cultural site.

Photo of an owner sitting in his internet cafe, published in The Korea Times, June 6, 1997. Korea Times Archive

Then we turned down a side street and stopped at a nondescript building marked by a simple sign: PC Bang. No flashing lights, no bold lettering — almost as if it were something you weren’t supposed to notice unless you already knew it was there.

Just a staircase descending into the basement.

In Seoul, a lot of good things are underground.

We went down, the noise of the street fading behind us with each step. Halfway down, the air changed — warmer, heavier, carrying the faint smell of cigarette smoke and hot electronics.

At the bottom of the stairwell, we pushed open a heavy door and stepped inside.

The light was dim, subdued, a bluish glow that didn’t so much illuminate the room as hover in it, washing over faces and hands and rows of screens. For a second, I stood there, blinking, adjusting — because it immediately reminded me of some secret underground military complex in a Cold War thriller, the kind where young men and women stare at glowing monitors and wait for something terrible to happen.

Only here, the screens weren’t radar — this wasn’t a missile silo. This was a game room. And whatever they were fighting, they were taking it very seriously.

Rows of computers ran in neat formation, each one its own command post. Cigarette smoke drifted like fog. The air held the constant hum of fans and circuitry, the whole room breathing in a mechanical rhythm — steady and relentless.

A man smoking in an internet cafe, published in The Korea Times, March 19, 2003. Korea Times Archive

At each computer, teenagers, university students and the occasional adult leaned forward, shoulders hunched, faces washed in blue light.

Even though they were “just playing,” they looked like they were working — focused, serious, locked in. It had that disciplined intensity Korea did so well, even when it came to playing a computer game.

My students moved through the room like they belonged there — which, of course, they did.

They walked straight to the counter, where a young man sat behind a half-height partition. He took their money with the bored precision of someone who’d done this a thousand times and barely lifted his eyes when he saw me trailing behind them.

Behind him were shelves of instant noodles and a cooler filled with soda — provisions.

People at an internet cafe, published in The Korea Times, June 6, 1997. Korea Times Archive

As we moved down the aisles, nobody stared at me.

That was one of Korea’s quiet miracles. Some days, a foreigner would stand out simply by breathing. But in a PC bang, everyone was too absorbed to care who you were. Your existence was a minor detail compared to whatever was happening on the screen.

We found three open computers, and I sat down. The chair — which had clearly seen its share of warfare — tilted back so suddenly I nearly went over before I caught my balance. The monitor was grimy, filmed over with fingerprints and dust. The keyboard was worse — keys polished shiny from constant use, letters half-erased by thousands of impatient fingers.

And then, for the first time in a decade, I was about to play a video game. My gaming finesse had peaked with Galaga, and I hoped StarCraft would respect my Galaga resume.

When it loaded, it felt less like a game and more like a tiny sci-fi war movie — part Star Wars, part Aliens, with a dash of Starship Troopers. You started with one base and a small patch of the map visible on the screen, everything else swallowed by darkness. Then the darkness moved. Enemy shapes poured in, the sound effects turned metallic and urgent, and suddenly my little outpost was being overrun. A few fast clicks later, it was all over, my base reduced to rubble like I’d wandered into the wrong movie and gotten eliminated in the first 10 minutes.

Behind me, one of my students laughed. Not cruel. Just delighted.

One of them leaned over, grinning, and said something I didn’t fully catch, but the meaning was clear enough: Again, try again.

People play Starcraft at a PC bang, published in The Korea Times, March 10, 2000. Korea Times Archive

That was what I took from that basement PC bang near Myongji University. It wasn’t about being good. It was about being pulled into it — the glow, the noise, the feeling that you’d stepped into a different world underground.

Around me, the room kept going: clicking, tapping, quick bursts of laughter. A groan from somewhere down the row. Someone tore open a bowl of instant noodles. The smell rose up instantly, spicy and artificial and perfect for a basement full of boys who had no intention of going home just yet.

Time behaved differently down there. No windows, no daylight, no reminders. Just the hush of concentration and the hum of machines doing exactly what they were built to do.

Customers at a PC bang, published in The Korea Times, March 11, 2003. Korea Times Archive

When we finally left the PC bang and climbed back up the stairs, the cold night air outside felt sharp and clean. Neon signs buzzed, cars slid past, students moved along the sidewalk, laughing, heading somewhere else, the street alive in its usual restless way. Everything looked normal up on the surface.

But I walked back into that night feeling like I’d been somewhere hidden and important — a place beneath the city where the future glowed blue and where my students, without even knowing it, were already living a few light years ahead of the rest of us.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels . His latest is " The Tree at Panmunjom ," about the 1976 Axe Murder Incident. Reach him at daejeonscribe@yahoo.com.

这篇个人随笔回忆了作者1998年第一次造访首尔网吧的经历。当时，作者带着学生去那里玩《星际争霸》。地下游戏室光线昏暗，烟雾缭绕，人头攒动，但每个人都全神贯注，一排排电脑和沉浸在游戏世界中的人们，构成了一幅生动的画面。这次经历仿佛窥见了韩国在亚洲金融危机期间迅速变化的地下世界，反映了当时韩国数字文化的变迁。

1998 年，作者和几名学生一起去了网吧，他去那里是为了玩星际争霸，而不是上网。

网吧位于明知大学附近，需要走楼梯才能到达地下室。

房间里摆放着一排排电脑、一个柜台、方便面、汽水、香烟烟雾，以及风扇和电路的嗡嗡声。

作者表示，网吧是韩国最便宜的上网方式，尤其是在亚洲金融危机期间。

作者将游戏体验比作一部小型科幻战争电影，并表示在第一局游戏很快结束后，学生们鼓励再试一次。

发布于2026年9月5日 上午5:30（韩国标准时间）

2005年8月26日，《韩国时报》刊登了一篇关于游戏成瘾的文章，文章配图为一张模糊处理过的照片。照片中的人物面部均被打码。（《韩国时报》档案）

我第一次去韩国的网吧，并不是为了上网。

那是 1998 年，我和几个学生一起去玩星际争霸，他们对这款游戏的热情就像美国人谈论超级碗一样高涨。

就像其他席卷全国的潮流一样，网吧的出现速度比电脑屏幕上的弹出窗口还快。它们是当时韩国最便宜的上网方式，尤其是在亚洲金融危机最严重的时候。

我知道PC是什么意思——个人电脑。它通常是一个笨重的显示器和会发出咔哒声和嗡嗡声的CPU，偶尔还会无缘无故地死机。

在韩语中，“bang”的意思是房间，这是一个简单、实用且直截了当的词。

我们去的网吧位于一个遍布传统店铺、咖啡馆、餐馆、药店和一家奇形怪状的药铺的街区——与其说是药店，不如说是老版弗兰肯斯坦电影里的布景。街道灯火通明，韩文招牌像闪闪发光的多米诺骨牌一样层层叠叠。空气中弥漫着食物的香气——饺子、辣炒年糕、炭火和烤肉的香味——让我沉浸在当下，就像韩国街头一贯的魅力。

我的学生们迈着沉稳的步伐走在前面，仿佛在护送我前往一个重要的文化遗址。

1997年6月6日，《韩国时报》刊登了一张网吧老板坐在自己网吧里的照片。《韩国时报》档案馆

然后我们拐进一条小巷，停在一栋毫不起眼的建筑前，招牌很简单：网吧。没有闪烁的灯光，也没有醒目的字体——仿佛除非你事先知道它的存在，否则你根本不应该注意到它。

只是一条通往地下室的楼梯。

在首尔，很多好东西都隐藏在地下。

我们往下走，街道的喧嚣随着每一步渐渐远去。走到半路，空气变了——更暖、更闷，夹杂着淡淡的香烟味和电子元件过热的味道。

在楼梯井底部，我们推开一扇沉重的门，走了进去。

灯光昏暗，泛着柔和的蓝光，与其说是照亮了房间，不如说是悬浮在房间里，洒落在人们的脸上、手上，以及一排排屏幕上。我愣在那里，眨了眨眼，适应了一下——因为这景象立刻让我想起了冷战惊悚片里某个秘密的地下军事基地，那种地方里，年轻的男女盯着闪着光的显示器，等待着可怕的事情发生。

只不过，这里的屏幕不是雷达——这里不是导弹发射井。这里是游戏室。而且，无论他们在对抗什么，他们都非常认真地对待。

一排排电脑整齐排列，每台电脑都像一个独立的指挥中心。香烟烟雾缭绕，如同薄雾。空气中弥漫着风扇和电路持续不断的嗡嗡声，整个房间仿佛在机械地呼吸——稳定而无情。

一名男子在网吧吸烟，照片刊登于2003年3月19日《韩国时报》。《韩国时报》档案馆

每台电脑前，青少年、大学生和偶尔出现的成年人都向前倾着身子，耸着肩，脸上泛着蓝光。

尽管他们“只是在玩游戏”，但看起来却像是在认真工作——专注、认真、全神贯注。这种严谨的纪律性，即使是在玩电脑游戏时也毫不逊色，正是韩国人擅长的。

我的学生们在房间里走动，就像他们本来就属于那里一样——当然，他们本来就是。

他们径直走到柜台前，一个年轻男子坐在半高的隔板后面。他麻木地收下他们的钱，动作精准得像个老手，仿佛已经做过无数次似的。当我跟在他们身后时，他几乎都没抬头看我一眼。

他身后是摆满方便面的货架和一个装满汽水的冷藏箱——都是生活必需品。

1997年6月6日，《韩国时报》刊登了一张网吧里人们的照片。（《韩国时报》档案馆）

我们沿着过道走的时候，没有人盯着我看。

那是韩国鲜为人知的奇迹之一。有时候，外国人哪怕只是呼吸都会引人注目。但在网吧里，每个人都全神贯注，根本不在乎你是谁。与屏幕上的画面相比，你的存在微不足道。

我们找到三台打开的电脑，我坐了下来。椅子——显然经历过不少风雨——突然向后倾斜，我差点摔倒，幸好稳住了身子。显示器很脏，上面布满了指纹和灰尘。键盘更糟糕——按键因为经常使用而锃亮，字母也被无数急躁的手指擦得模糊不清。

然后，十年来我第一次要玩电子游戏了。我的游戏技巧巅峰时期是《Galaga》，我希望《星际争霸》能认可我在《Galaga》中的战绩。

游戏加载完毕后，感觉与其说像个游戏，不如说更像一部小型科幻战争电影——融合了《星球大战》和《异形》的元素，还带点《星河战队》的味道。游戏开始时，屏幕上只显示一个基地和地图的一小部分，其余部分都被黑暗吞噬。随后，黑暗开始蔓延。敌人的身影涌入，音效变得尖锐而急促，我的小哨站瞬间被攻陷。几下快速点击之后，一切结束，我的基地化为废墟，就像我误入了一部错误的电影，在开场十分钟内就被淘汰出局一样。

我身后，一个学生笑了。不是嘲笑，而是高兴。

其中一人俯身过来，咧嘴一笑，说了些什么，我没完全听清，但意思很清楚：再试一次。

人们在网吧玩星际争霸，刊登于2000年3月10日《韩国时报》。《韩国时报》档案

这就是我从明知大学附近那家地下网吧里学到的。它无关乎技术好不好，而是关乎被它吸引——那种光芒、那种喧嚣，那种仿佛踏入地下另一个世界的感觉。

周围房间里依旧热闹非凡：咔哒咔哒的响声、敲击声，还有断断续续的笑声。远处传来一声呻吟。有人撕开一碗方便面的盖子。香味瞬间扑面而来，辛辣又人工，正适合这群一心想回家却还没打算回家的男孩们待在地下室里。

那里的时间流逝方式截然不同。没有窗户，没有阳光，没有任何提醒。只有专注的静默和机器运转的嗡嗡声，它们都在按部就班地完成着各自的使命。

《韩国时报》2003年3月11日刊登的网吧顾客照片。《韩国时报》档案馆

当我们终于离开网吧，爬上楼梯时，外面寒冷的夜风清冽而洁净。霓虹灯闪烁，汽车疾驰而过，学生们沿着人行道走着，说说笑笑，走向别处，街道一如往常那样充满活力。表面上看，一切似乎都很正常。

但那天晚上我回到家时，感觉自己仿佛去过一个隐秘而重要的地方——城市之下，未来闪耀着蓝色的光芒，我的学生们甚至不知道，就已经生活在比我们其他人领先几个光年的地方。

杰弗里·米勒是多部小说的作者。他的最新作品是《板门店之树》，讲述了1976年的斧头杀人事件。您可以通过daejeonscribe@yahoo.com联系他。