Why Do Game Companies Refuse to Let You Own Your Account — Even If It Means Getting Criticized?

Recently, NetEase Games has once again found itself at the center of controversy. Players of titles such as Identity V and Onmyoji are accusing the company of enforcing an unreasonable policy hidden in its user agreement: “If a player does not log in for more than 365 days, the company will notify the player. If the player still does not log in within a reasonable time frame, the account will be permanently deleted.” Many gamers are furious — and understandably so. “I just took a break for a year — I didn’t quit the game!” one player complained. After all the time and money poured into grinding gear and buying premium items, how can a company simply delete everything with one click? Is such a “take-it-or-leave-it” clause even legal? And more importantly — who truly owns our in-game data and assets?

NetEase isn’t alone in this practice. A review of several major gaming companies reveals similar clauses: miHoYo (Genshin Impact, Honkai: Star Rail) deletes inactive accounts after 365 days, Lilith Games follows the same rule, while Tencent is slightly more lenient, extending it to three years. Surprisingly, Tencent seems the most “generous” — but from the player’s perspective, it still feels unfair. Why can companies erase something you’ve invested both time and money into? This leads to the real question: who actually owns your game data?

Whether it’s an online or single-player game, players don’t own their game data. Every digital item — from characters and skins to the account itself — legally belongs to the game developer. Players only have the right to use these assets. In other words, every in-game purchase is essentially a rental. Almost all service agreements include three key points: all account data and virtual items belong to the platform; players cannot gift, lend, or transfer their accounts or items; and the company reserves the right to modify, reclaim, ban, or terminate services at any time. Even for physical console games like Nintendo cartridges or PlayStation discs, what you own is the physical medium and the right to use the content — not the data itself.

Game companies define themselves as service providers, not sellers of goods. The games we play are not products but ongoing digital services. Items, currencies, and updates are part of that service model. This structure exists for two main reasons. First, from an operational standpoint, developers must constantly maintain and balance their games — adjusting numbers, banning cheaters, and fixing bugs. If players legally owned their data, such actions could be considered tampering with private property, inviting endless lawsuits. Second, allowing players full ownership could lead to financial risks. If players could freely trade items or currency, those assets would effectively become real-world digital currencies, creating black markets, money laundering risks, and regulatory complications.

By defining games as services, companies avoid these pitfalls — but at the cost of players’ rights. Each time you click “I Agree,” you’re effectively signing away control over your digital assets. Game shutdowns, account bans, item nerfs, and devalued currencies — all these risks fall on the player. Even inheritance rights are restricted; if a player passes away, their account cannot be transferred to family or friends under most user agreements.

China’s Civil Code (Article 127) acknowledges “data and online virtual property” as legally protected, yet it doesn’t specify whether game accounts qualify as property, debt, or intellectual rights. This legal ambiguity lets companies retain control. Some scholars argue for a property-rights model, viewing accounts as tangible, valuable assets, while others see them as contractual usage rights under service agreements. Regardless of the interpretation, one thing is clear: players deserve fair notice and a proper grace period before losing access to their accounts.

In 2021, a player surnamed Zhou sued Lilith Games, claiming that the 365-day deletion clause and the ban on item trading were invalid. Lilith defended itself by citing industry norms, noting that miHoYo and Perfect World had similar terms. The court ruled partially in favor of the player, declaring the deletion clause excessive but upholding the company’s ownership of in-game assets. That same year, Tencent sued several third-party trading platforms, accusing them of illegally facilitating virtual currency and item trades.

Globally, similar disputes have surfaced before. In 1998, Japanese giants such as Sony, Nintendo, and Capcom sued second-hand retailers to block used game sales — and lost. The court ruled that once a game is sold, the consumer has the right to resell it. Imagine if smartphone makers sued you for selling your old phone! Thankfully, the courts sided with consumers, preserving the right of resale.

Games differ from books or films because they evolve through player participation. Every hour of gameplay and every dollar spent contributes to the game’s value. Naturally, players feel a sense of ownership. Yet, legal ownership is absolute — you either have it or you don’t. Because of this, the law currently operates in a gray zone between service rights and virtual property. Encouragingly, some courts have begun recognizing game accounts and virtual items as inheritable assets, hinting at a shift toward greater player protection.

With over 700 million gamers in China alone, the question of digital ownership is no longer niche — it’s a pressing social issue. One day, players may no longer be mere renters in the virtual worlds they help build, but rightful owners of the digital value they’ve created.