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  2K didn’t employ booth babes. Instead, our promo team had gathered a mix of young men and women dressed in branded T-shirts and black pants. They were attractive, for sure. Definitely above average. But that had more to do with hiring them through casting agencies rather than off the street. None of them understood fully what they were doing. A few of the guys played video games, but I don’t think any of them had ever read a comic book. This place was alien to them. Still, they gave it their all. They memorized all the talking points, delivered them with believable excitement, and never once looked down their noses at the people spending their weekend buying toys and dressing up in spandex.

  During one of my negotiated bathroom breaks, I noticed one of our young ladies crying behind the booth. I asked Bruce what was wrong. Apparently she had flubbed some of the talking points. Someone from the developer had overheard it and yelled at her for the mistake.

  I felt bad, so I invited her to watch my demo a few times. Watching someone else pitch the game might help her retain the information. A few hours later, I heard her enthusiastically recounting what I’d said, word for word. Good for her. I stuck my head out so I could proudly survey my work. To my horror, I saw she had grabbed Joe Quesada, editor in chief of Marvel, by the shoulders and was politely yelling into his face.

  “HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT—”

  “No no no no no!” I rushed over and gently removed her hands from Mr. Quesada. “It’s okay, you can stop. He knows all about the game, and he doesn’t care.” Joe laughed it off and went on his way. For a split second, I considered stopping him to find out if that guy from the mail room ever gave him my résumé, if only to bring the story full circle. But he’d been accosted enough for one day.

  “Did I say something wrong?” the girl asked.

  “You did perfect. He’s just a very important person.”

  “Oh, like an actor?”

  It occurred to me that “very important person” might be a relative term in this situation. “Yup.” I smiled and nodded. “He’s an actor.”

  * * *

  WHEN I’M PLAYING AND presenting a demo at the same time, my eyes stay focused on the screen. Like trying to walk and chew gum simultaneously, there’s just too much going on for me to pay attention to anyone else in the room. I welcome everyone as they enter and wish them a great afternoon when they leave, but that is the extent of our interaction.

  If the kid hadn’t attended two demos in a row, I never would have noticed him. I didn’t say anything to him when he came in the second time with a different crowd. Either my eyes lingered too long or he saw the recognition in my face, because he burrowed down into his seat, as if trying to hide. Not very helpful, seeing as he was in the front row. I barely made a note of it before launching into my usual spiel. Ten minutes later, everyone filed out, kid included. Two minutes after that, the kid strolled back in, this time with a new group. He stuck to the back row and held a stack of comic books tight against his chest so as to hide his lanyard. It must have been holding a three-day pass, the kind you bought in advance that came printed with your name on it.

  Even though I only gave my audience a cursory glance, there was no way I could have missed the kid. Show up to three demos in a row, and you’re going to stand out.

  “You must really dig the show, huh?”

  The kid blushed and ducked his head. “Yes, sir.” He didn’t look my way again until I’d started the demo. As I went through my script, playing and speaking, I made sure to look away from the screen a few times, just to see what he was doing. His eyes were wide and locked on the game playing out before him.

  Wow, I thought. He actually was digging the show.

  Afterward, the kid hung back while the group shuffled away. Now that I was paying attention, I guessed that he was somewhere around ten or twelve years old.

  “I’m sorry.” He looked ashamed, like he’d been caught stealing. “I shouldn’t have snuck back in here.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. If you want to watch the demo, come watch it. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Even if I already saw it?”

  “Hey, if you like it so much you want to keep watching it, that’s awesome. You can check out the demo as many times as you like.”

  I’ve only seen pure, unadulterated joy twice in my life. The first time was when I brought a big, empty duffel bag to where the Girl Scouts were selling cookies and told them to fill it up with Tagalongs until it couldn’t hold anymore. The second time was in that demo booth.

  The kid stuck around for three more demos. In between, he’d ask questions about the game, and I’d give him little bits of “confidential” information. They weren’t actually secrets, but they weren’t part of my presentation, either. He didn’t know any better, and it made him feel like he was getting to see something really special. After six presentations, he finally decided to head back to the convention floor. Before he went, I gave him as much swag as he could carry—shirts, posters, everything we had.

  “Do you know if there are any more games here?” he asked.

  “That’s a good question. I honestly have no idea. They keep me locked in here, playing demos all day.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, thanks again!” He passed through the curtains and, so I believed, out of my life forever.

  Presenting demos can be a thankless job. You’ll occasionally have someone ask a question, like “When’s it coming out?” “What platforms will it be on?” “Will there be multiplayer?” All of which require the PR-approved response of, “We’re not talking about that yet.” The best you can hope for is that you might tell an off-the-cuff joke during the demo and the room will laugh. That always makes you feel good, but it’s just showmanship. Showing demos for the press can be even worse. You’ll get game journalists who try not to show any emotional response so as not to betray their opinions. It’s like talking to a wall, until you reach the end and they ask, “When’s it coming out? What platforms will it be on? Will there be multiplayer?”

  Side note: Please stop asking if there will be multiplayer. There won’t be.

  I’d only been at the job for a few months, but a lot of the magic had already worn off. When you work hard on something, it’s exciting to show it off. But there are only so many times you can look into the practiced, unimpressed stares of game journos or read the angry comments of unfulfilled grown-ups before that excitement begins to fade. Eventually, you learn to manage your expectations. Hell, you’re trained to do it, like a dog that gets hit with a rolled-up newspaper every time he jumps on the couch. “This is just how it goes,” you tell yourself. “At least people are seeing it.” Inside, a tiny piece of your dream dies, and you move one step closer to viewing your career as just another job.

  But then some random kid wanders into your demo booth and you get to make his day by letting him know your game is waiting for him in the future, and for a little while you both get to be excited because holy shit, video games are awesome.

  The kid showed up again toward the end of the day.

  “Back for another round?”

  “No,” he said. “I just wanted to bring you something, since you don’t get to leave the booth.” He handed me a promotional comic book—a team-up between The Darkness and Witchblade. The symbol in the corner indicated that it was a convention exclusive. A fresh autograph was scribbled across the cover in silver ink. “The artist was signing copies at one of the booths.”

  “Wow. That’s really nice of you to do, but I can’t take your comic from you.”

  He held up a second copy. “It’s okay. I got two of them.”

  I don’t like when strangers do nice things for me. Whichever part of my brain controls external responses can’t seem to figure out an appropriate reaction. On one hand, a random act of kindness deserves a heartfelt response. On the other, some of us get weirded out by it. When someone is kind to me, my emotional cortex trips all over itself. Whatever I say, I end up coming across like a lizard-person who killed a g
uy, put on his skin, and then tried to mimic human emotion.

  Maybe the kid could tell, because he spared me having to respond. Instead, he thanked me again for letting him watch the demo and for giving him all that free swag. Then out through the curtains he went, forever this time.

  * * *

  AS THE CONVENTION DREW to a close on Sunday, Bruce stuck his head into the demo booth and gave me a nod. “You got thirty minutes. Make ’em count.”

  I already knew what I wanted. The convention was too big. I knew thirty minutes wouldn’t be enough, so I’d been using my periodic bathroom breaks as a way to scout ahead, each time taking a different route to and from the booth. Turns out I didn’t have to go far. What I wanted was one row over from ours.

  Alex Ross, the award-winning painter, had a booth at the convention where his dealer was selling some of his original sketches and paintings. I’d been a fan of his work for years, but never imagined I might one day own a piece of it. Among the items for sale were some of Ross’s preliminary art he’d done for the opening credits of the film Spider-Man 2. There were four pictures on two pages. Combined, they cost a total of $1,750. That was $250 more than what Bruce had agreed to pay. I would have paid the difference myself, but I didn’t have that kind of money. I thought about getting just one, but couldn’t bring myself to choose. The only other option was to give up and find something else.

  While I agonized over my decision, Bruce casually slid up beside me in that quiet, creepy way of his. “Alex Ross, huh?”

  He listened while I explained the situation, occasionally nodding without saying a word. When I was done, Bruce flagged down the art dealer.

  “I think I want to get these two Spider-Man pieces. How’s $1,500 sound?”

  The dealer didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bag them up for you.”

  What the hell had I just seen? Was that haggling? I had no idea. I’d only tried to haggle once in my life, with a guy selling used books on a sidewalk in New York. My attempt was so feeble, not only did I end up paying full price, I also apologized. Like so many things, everything I knew of haggling I had seen on TV. I knew you started low, countered high, and then went back and forth until both parties settled on a reasonable price. Bruce had done none of that. He’d basically thrown money on the floor and said, “Pick that shit up and bring me my art.”

  “Are you a wizard?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Bruce arched his eyebrows and made his best approximation of an arcane gesture. “Don’t tell anyone.” He dropped the pose and pulled out his wallet. “I’m also friends with the dealer. I get first dibs anytime there’s a new Wonder Woman piece for sale. Alex Ross has a lot of my money.”

  The dealer returned and handed the art to Bruce, who in turn handed it to me. “You earned it.”

  In the years since then, I’ve acquired a small but respectable collection of original art. It’s on the small side because I’m picky; I only buy art that has a direct connection to an important moment in my life. The various pieces decorate my entire house, but I always hang the Alex Ross pieces near my desk. It’s easy to get bogged down in the daily work and forget what you love about the job. Looking at that art helps me remember important things. Like it’s okay to spend the entire weekend playing a video game, and that there once was a time when promoting a game at a comic convention was a grand adventure.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, D. T. and I returned to a quiet office. Our inboxes were empty. We went to every producer, associate producer, project manager—they had nothing for us. No tasks, nothing to review or play. We decided to take a long lunch.

  D. T. shouted at me through a mouthful of cheesesteak. “We’re unnecessary, Walter! Redundant!”

  At the time, it seemed plausible. During my original interview, the Fox said 2K was hiring a game analyst to handle the extra work producers couldn’t find time for. Now that the work had dried up, it made sense they would no longer need us.

  “This is our fault,” I said. “We finished our work too fast. How long do you think it’ll take before they realize they don’t need us anymore?”

  “A week; maybe two. This is a major corporation, Walter. There will be no shit-or-get-off-the-pot moment. They will squeeze us out and move on. I’m telling you, our days are numbered.”

  We finished our twenty-four collective inches of Cheez Whiz–slathered beefsteak in silence. The dream was over. It was time to think about getting a real job.

  Back in the office, Geekjock waved us over. “The Fox’s been looking for you.”

  We had underestimated 2K’s efficiency. D. T. and I shared a sad, knowing look, then went to meet our fate.

  The Fox didn’t sit in the open with the rest of us. He had a small, glass-walled office set off to the side. The only chair was his, tucked behind his desk. D. T. and I had to share a low, leather-clad bench, which gave the Fox a significant height advantage. It was a classic power play, albeit with a twist—hanging above the Fox was a stuffed moose head. The head was massive. Alive, the animal must have weighed a literal ton. We were trapped in its glassy, dead-eyed stare.

  “So . . . what are you working on?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” I said.

  “Really?” The Fox cocked his head, a bit like a confused puppy. “I heard you were both very busy.” Was this some kind of put-on? Maybe he was trying to let us down easy.

  “We were, but we finished everything. We’re just waiting for the next thing.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Without warning, the Fox clapped his hands together. “Well, good news! I’ve got a task for the both of you. One each, because I am a very generous man.”

  I voiced a silent prayer to God, thanking him for ignoring my many heresies and giving me a second chance. This time, I’d play it smart; make the job last as long as possible.

  “Walt, I want you to take a look at Top Spin 2.”

  Wait—a tennis game? Not a chance.

  “Yeeeah, I’m not really sure I can do that. I hate tennis.” Emboldened by the realization I wasn’t getting fired, I apparently decided to shoot myself in the foot. “It is a boring, stupid sport, and I don’t understand it.”

  I tried to appear apologetic. The look on the Fox’s face said it wasn’t working.

  “You think you should be excused from doing your job because you don’t like tennis?”

  “That’s not what I said at all.” Actually, that’s exactly what I said, but copping to it wouldn’t do me any favors. “What I’m saying is, I won’t be able to provide helpful feedback. If the game is bad, I won’t like it. If it’s good, I still won’t like it. It could be the best tennis game ever made, and I’d have no idea. Does that make sense?”

  The Fox studied me for a moment, measuring whatever response he was about to give. Finally, he said, “That’s a fair point. But I don’t like it. D. T. will take over Top Spin. You can check out Oblivion.”

  Then my heart exploded and I died.

  * * *

  LET ME TELL YOU about a little video-game franchise called The Elder Scrolls. Developed by Bethesda Softworks, The Elder Scrolls are a series of fantasy games known for their expansive worlds and nonlinear gameplay. I never played the first two games in the franchise, Arena and Daggerfall, but I had a long history with Morrowind, having purchased it three times in my life.

  The first was during my freshman year of college. I’d noticed the PC version on sale in the campus bookstore and was intrigued. I’d already decided which classes I wouldn’t bother attending, so I sold back those books and used the cash to buy the game, all in the same transaction.

  My computer ran Morrowind as well as I might run a marathon. Even with graphical settings tuned to the lowest levels, it would work only in fifteen-to-thirty-minute stretches before hard-crashing. Growing up, I didn’t play PC games; everything was console. I had no concept of system requirements. Still, I was not deterred. My first experience with Morrowind was unpolished, low-res, and laggy, but I was e
nthralled nonetheless. With every reboot, I couldn’t wait to get back into that world and see what I’d discover next. The only reason I eventually quit was because Morrowind was too good. After a few weeks, I finally gave it to a friend. Seeing it on my desktop, knowing I couldn’t immerse myself in the game for hours at a time, just hurt too much.

  Four years later, while working at the mall in Austin, I saw the Xbox version on sale and quickly scooped it up. I didn’t own an Xbox, but my friend did; and that friend owed me a favor, so it was like I owned an Xbox. I called in my chit, and he brought it over that afternoon.

  “You didn’t buy the Game of the Year edition?” he asked.

  An hour later, I bought Morrowind for the third and final time. My wallet was pissed, but my body was ready.

  On the surface, The Elder Scrolls is similar to what you’d find in Dungeon & Dragons. It takes place in a medieval, vaguely European world populated by humans, elves, orcs, cat-people, and lizard-people. The player’s available skill sets fall into the usual categories of stealth, swords, and sorcery. These similarities don’t make the series derivative. A world and its people are just a starting point. What makes a story unique is how those elements are used. Morrowind used those familiar elements and remixed them to create a world both alien and familiar.

  Vvardenfell, home of the gray-skinned Dunmer elves, was a land of stone and ash, where giant mushrooms grew alongside centuries-old pines. I was its hero, Indoril Nerevar, reincarnated as Walt, the Dunmer thief. I could have tried a new class, like fighter or mage, but I just didn’t see the point. Why waste time working my ass off for money and power when so much of it was sitting around in people’s houses, waiting for me to take it? I’d need both if I was going to challenge the immortal Dagoth Ur, whose defeat I was prophesied to bring about. Luckily, Dagoth Ur and his followers were trapped inside the Red Mountain, which meant I was free to bum around until such time as I could be bothered to deal with his slaggy ass.