In This “Underground” Industry: Some Lose Tens of Thousands, Others Fear a Knock from the Police

Since the release of the first game cheat program, Zmud, in 1995, a “cheating carnival” that has spanned more than three decades has never truly stopped.

What began as crude, single-purpose tools has since evolved far beyond simple rule-breaking. Today’s cheats have grown into a sprawling underground empire—one that spans technical development, multi-tier distribution networks, and even coordinated narrative manipulation. Its scale, sophistication, and audacity are now reaching historic highs.

The numbers tell a stark story. According to the 2025 Mid-Year Game Security Insights Report, the first half of 2025 saw 61,465 PC game cheats, a year-on-year surge of 238%. Mobile game cheats reached 100,927, up more than 162%. Both figures set all-time records.

Shooter games have become the hardest-hit battlefield. FPS and TPS titles alone account for 81.9% of all PC game cheats, marking the third consecutive year in which this genre has dominated the cheat ecosystem.

Most players have felt it firsthand. You take cover behind walls—only to be headshot with impossible precision. You finally loot a rare, high-value item, celebrate for a split second, and are instantly eliminated by an opponent who appears out of nowhere. Movements exceed human limits. Defeats feel predetermined.

Yet few players realize what lies beneath these encounters. How does a cheat travel from development to the hands of a player? Why do so many people knowingly step into legal gray zones, fully aware of the risks?

No one can accurately calculate the true size of this underground empire. But the money, deception, intimidation, and hidden violence tied to it far exceed common imagination.

And one question lingers: is there really such a thing as “risk-free” profit in this shadowy industry?

What follows is a raw look at the realities inside this world that prefers to stay unseen.

For shooter game player Xiaolin, gaming has become an endless loop of hopelessness. No matter where he hides on the map, opponents always seem to find him instantly, eliminating him with a single shot—“as if they can see straight through walls.”

His most devastating moment came after he finally looted a rare, high-value item. Just as the thought “I’ve struck it rich” crossed his mind, another player appeared out of nowhere, killed him instantly, and walked away with everything.

Confused and frustrated, Xiaolin turned to a seasoned player for answers. That’s when he learned about wall-hack cheats—tools that crack underlying map data and display enemy positions and resources in real time. These cheats are widely used in gray-market scenarios such as power-leveling services, “escort” runs that protect valuable loot, and professional treasure-hunting operations.

The veteran didn’t stop there. He rattled off other cheat categories with practiced ease.

Aimbots automatically lock onto vital hit points. Automation scripts simulate human behavior or use image recognition to fire weapons and loot items at machine speed. Economic cheats filter low-value items, mark traps, and optimize illegal profit in loot-heavy game modes.

“Plenty of studios make their living farming gold with cheats,” the veteran said casually. “Some people grind hundreds of millions of in-game currency and sell it for cash. Against those players, regular users don’t stand a chance.”

The tone carried more than explanation—it hinted at a pitch.

To Zhou Zhou, a cheat seller, that statement is an undeniable truth. “Look at overseas servers,” he scoffed. “Who doesn’t use cheats? Anyone who doesn’t is just naive.”

Three years ago, the 21-year-old still dreamed of becoming a professional player. That dream shattered in an internet café, where he was relentlessly dominated by cheaters—headshot through multiple walls, unable even to see his opponent’s character model.

“If you can’t beat them, join them,” someone suggested.

Zhou Zhou paid several thousand yuan in agency fees and became a cheat reseller.

He wasn’t alone. Many young people in his circle followed the same path—passionate gamers who once hoped to make a living through skill, only to be drawn in by the faster, easier money of cheat sales.

“We’re just funding our esports dreams,” Zhou Zhou insisted, trying to justify himself. But the label cheat dealer never really goes away.

Zhou Zhou specializes in DMA cheats, a new generation of tools that use external hardware to bypass traditional anti-cheat systems.

Unlike software cheats installed directly on gaming devices, DMA cheats rely on physically isolated hardware, making them far more difficult to detect. In today’s market, they are widely regarded as the most powerful—and dangerous—cheats available.

Power comes at a price.

A typical DMA setup consists of a “three-piece kit”: a board, a fusion device, and an aimbot module. Configurations vary by vendor, but prices usually hover around several thousand yuan. Each sale earns Zhou Zhou a commission ranging from tens to hundreds of yuan.

By distributing through e-commerce platforms and offering ongoing maintenance, his monthly income regularly exceeds five figures. During peak gaming seasons, such as major holidays, it can double.

“If you’re aggressive and seize the right opportunities, making 100,000 yuan a month isn’t impossible,” he said with pride. “For people like us who never went to college, isn’t this a decent job?”

High-end clients go much further. Zhou Zhou has seen professional players spend tens of thousands on hardware kits, then pay additional monthly fees for custom cheat software built and maintained one-on-one.

“Money decides everything,” he said bluntly. “If you can pay, anything can be made.”

Despite the bravado, Zhou Zhou bristles at being dismissed as “just a cheat seller.” In his mind, there is a clear hierarchy.

Hardware cheats sit at the top.

“Every game has different anti-cheat logic,” he explained. “There’s no universal firmware. If you don’t understand the game deeply, clients get banned, and your reputation is finished.”

The costs are also steep. Beyond software fees, maintenance alone can exceed 1,000 yuan per month. “Unless you’re a pro or a serious grinder, you can’t afford it.”

By contrast, software cheats—cheap aimbots and wall hacks rented for as little as two yuan a day—are, in his view, low-tier products with thin margins.

Zhang Na, a software cheat agent, agrees that the hierarchy exists.

This is her second year in the industry. She previously worked part-time at a studio offering “escort services” in PUBG, where elite players protected paying clients and helped them extract valuable loot.

“Cheats were an open secret,” she said. “Without them, you couldn’t win. And without winning, no one would place orders.”

Demand kept growing. Eventually, she became a reseller herself.

Most software cheat platforms operate on tiered systems. Premium users pay up to 3,000 yuan per month for advanced features, while mid-tier users pay around 2,000. Ordinary players rent basic tools for 200–300 yuan monthly.

“Upgrading is like buying luxury goods,” Zhang Na said. “You have to spend enough and compete for rank.”

With thousands of users and multiple revenue streams, she estimates some platforms generate over one million yuan in monthly turnover.

Hardware sellers may look flashy, she added, but they also leave shipping records and inventory trails—risks she believes are underestimated.

No matter who’s right, one reality is undeniable. The cheat economy is built on a rigid, multi-layered structure: upstream developers, mid-level distributors, and downstream agents.

At the top sit the developers—small, highly technical teams that forecast which games will explode in popularity. Cheats are time-sensitive products. If a game goes viral and a cheat is ready, profits follow fast.

Developers often start work during beta testing, dismantling game structures before release. By launch day, the cheats are nearly complete.

“They’re incredibly skilled,” Zhang Na admitted. “Two weeks is often enough.”

These developers remain ghosts—often overseas or hidden in obscure towns—delivering code via SaaS platforms. They never sell directly, never meet agents, and leave behind little evidence beyond transaction logs.

The code flows downstream to distributors, who package it into sellable products and move it through card-based marketplaces—virtual goods platforms operating through websites or private groups.

End-level agents handle customer support, installation guidance, and promotion. Barriers to entry are low, leading to endless layers of “agents recruiting agents,” with many sellers unaware of where their products truly originate.

Competition at the bottom is brutal.

To attract customers, agents flood social platforms with highlight clips filmed from cheat perspectives. They monitor comment sections for phrases like “looking for cheats” and reach out instantly.

Sometimes, they even report one another.

“It’s survival of the fittest,” Zhang Na said. “Like gang turf wars—people will do anything for traffic.”

Yet pressure keeps mounting. Anti-cheat systems grow stronger. Bans are harsher. Fewer players dare to buy.

To compensate, some agents try to normalize cheating, posting claims like “you can’t win without cheats” to ease customer fears.

Still, anxiety lingers.

Zhang Na knows the industry has no future in the light. Regulation tightens. Tax scrutiny increases. No one dares to report income. Every transaction is a hidden risk.

Worse still is the law. Selling cheats isn’t just a violation—it’s a crime.

Copyright infringement, destruction of computer systems, illegal business operations. Depending on scale, penalties range from fines to prison.

Cases are common. One day, suppliers are taking orders; the next, they vanish. Everyone knows what that means.

Yet in her small hometown, fast money is hard to replace.

So she, like many others, buys stolen identities—phone numbers, ID cards, facial data—to register accounts and shield herself from exposure.

“This whole industry runs like an assembly line,” she said quietly. “And players rarely report sellers. That’s why things keep going.”

She paused, then added softly, “At least for now.”

Beyond cheats themselves, the ecosystem branches into power-leveling, account rentals, data trafficking, and more—forming a dense criminal web.

One closely linked offshoot is account unbanning services.

When accounts are banned for cheating, penalties range from 24 hours to 10 years. “Unban agents” claim to reverse these decisions through appeals and technical manipulation.

Xiaofeng, 22, works part-time at one such studio. Prices range from under 100 yuan to nearly 900, depending on the method—some involving falsified evidence and data manipulation to trigger review processes.

Most clients claim innocence. In reality, fewer than 1% are wrongly banned.

Severe bans often result from DMA cheats that permanently flag hardware IDs. These violations require technical modification far beyond what ordinary players could do accidentally.

Despite warnings, scams are rampant. Fake insiders promise guaranteed unbans, collect fees, then disappear.

The same happens with DMA hardware sales—fake “internal channels,” useless manuals, vanished sellers.

“In this industry, scams are everywhere,” Xiaofeng said. “And since everything is illegal, no one dares call the police.”

Both Xiaofeng and Zhang Na live with constant inner conflict.

Xiaofeng studies software engineering and dreams of working at a legitimate game studio. But entry-level salaries feel unattainable compared to the money he earns now.

Zhang Na, 27, hopes to marry and live a stable life. But she has no social security, no legitimate résumé, and her future mother-in-law openly opposes the relationship.

Worse, she knows the stolen identities she uses may fuel telecom fraud and money laundering.

“The internet never forgets,” she said, recalling a 2015 case where a cheat development ring was dismantled nationwide. Ten years later, it still haunts the industry.

Even Zhou Zhou has felt the consequences of similar technology. As a music fan, he has never successfully bought concert tickets—bots always beat him. He knows they use the same logic as game cheats.

“Those tools will ruin the system one day,” he once cursed.

But when the topic returns to cheats, he falls silent.

After a long pause, he murmured, “This is different.”

Why it’s different, he couldn’t explain.