The first time I loaded up Jili Fishing Game here in Manila, I was struck by that familiar thrill of combat. The feedback from casting my line, the tension of the reel, it all entices you to see how each weapon—or in this case, each rod and bait combination—works in a skirmish with the digital deep. It’s surprising, then, that so few of the truly powerful setups are just handed to you. You won’t find the legendary Golden Rod just lying strewn around the map or as a simple login bonus. Much like that description of inflated merchant prices, the in-game shop offers premium lures and enhanced reels, but the cost in pearls or real money can feel heavily inflated. This economic pressure forces you to use what you’re lucky enough to get your hands on through sheer persistence. I remember spending my first week with a basic rod, feeling that pinch, making do with the common shrimp bait while watching other players haul in marlins with gear I could only dream of.

And that’s where the real fun begins, in my opinion. It’s incredibly fun to make some unconventional combinations work. I had a phase where I was obsessed with using the low-tier Bamboo Pole but pairing it with a mid-grade electric reel. It made for exciting combat against the tougher fish; I could deal rapid, successive damage to their stamina bar but it forced me to be evasive, constantly managing my line tension to avoid a snap. This weird but interesting combo was my go-to for nearly 20 hours of gameplay. But then I hit a wall. The ability upgrade system, much like the one described, began to stifle that creativity. You earn ability points—let’s say you get one every time you level up, and leveling up requires catching roughly 50 fish—and these upgrades are the kind you’d find in a traditional RPG. You’re building toward a specific build. There’s a skill, for instance, that increases damage for one-handed rod users by 15% and critical chance by 5%. Another boosts the effectiveness of specific bait types by 20%. When you see numbers like that, it’s difficult to justify spreading your limited points across multiple weapon types. Why would I invest in both my Bamboo Pole and my nascent interest in harpoon guns when I could just pour all 25 of my points into the one-handed weapon tree and become a true master?

This design philosophy, I’ve found, creates a clear meta-game. It’s far more effective to stick to one path. In the Jili Fishing competitive leagues, which award upwards of 5,000 PHP to the weekly top scorer, you’ll see a sea of players using the optimized, one-handed “Neptune’s Trident” rod, all having buffed its damage and critical chances to the max. The game, perhaps unintentionally, discourages you from being a jack of all trades. I tried, I really did. I wanted to be the player who could seamlessly switch between a net, a rod, and a spear based on the fish type. But my damage output was so scattered that I couldn’t compete in the timed tournaments. My catch rate against the mythical Kraken boss was a pathetic 12% with my hybrid build, whereas when I respec’d and focused solely on harpoons, it jumped to nearly 40%. The system actively punishes experimentation at the higher levels, which is a real shame because some of Jili's most-interesting combinations just don't synergize well with the progression mechanics.

This isn’t to say the game isn’t rewarding. The rewards for sticking to a path are substantial. Completing the daily “Deep Sea Challenge” with a focused build can net you 1,500 in-game gold and a handful of gacha tickets, which is the primary way to get those rare weapons without paying the inflated shop prices. The thrill of finally defeating the Emerald Leviathan after min-maxing your gear is a genuine rush. But I can’t help but feel a sense of lost potential. I miss the early days of my journey, where my gear was a mismatched collection and every catch felt like a hard-won victory based on skill and weird combinations, not just on a pre-determined build. My personal strategy now is a compromise: I have my main, optimized loadout for serious prize hunting, but I keep a separate save file just for messing around with bizarre gear setups. It’s there that I rediscover the pure, unoptimized joy of the game, proving that the fun isn't always in the most effective path, but in the messy, unpredictable skirmishes with the unknown depths.