The Race For A New Game Machine:. David Shippy

across many locations and organized into a complicated web of semi-related divisions, each with its own mission, its own independent team. Even so, I had a reasonable expectation to be included in any discussions with potential clients for my processor. I fumed and raged about the subterfuge, but in the undercurrents beneath my anger, a more familiar beast took a deep, satisfying breath—my pride. Microsoft’s interest was flattering, a high compliment to my team’s virtuosity. We designed the fastest microprocessor in the industry, one that broke numerous performance records. It was tiny, and it consumed very little power. We gave Sony’s little game box the performance of a supercomputer, driving a deep shaft into a goldmine of riches for IBM that would endure for years.

      “Dave, you and your team have done an amazing job. I’m proud of your work.” Akrout was quick and generous with his praise, and because of my respect for him, his approval meant a great deal. Grinning, he added, “It was your team’s microprocessor that turned Microsoft’s head and convinced them to strike a deal with us.”

      “Of course it did,” I retorted, rocking forward in my chair. That’s the only thing he’d said that hadn’t surprised me. “Given all the bad blood between IBM and Microsoft, I’ll bet they considered every other option before they came to us, didn’t they? And I can tell you what they discovered. The folks at Intel and AMD can’t deliver anything like this.”

      Did I mention that we chip designers are as competitive as Top Gun pilots?

      “There’s more,” Akrout said. He sank back into his chair, a subtle shift of body language, but enough to tell me he didn’t like relaying the next tidbit of news any more than he had the first. He ran a hand across his thinning black hair and sighed. “Microsoft wants something very similar to what you designed for Sony but with some unique enhancements, and they want it on the same schedule.” He then described the design changes Microsoft needed for a super-aggressive, market-shaking Christmas 2005 launch.

      “That’s crazy!” I shouted, and slapped a hand down on the table. “It’s practically a total redesign. It took us two and a half years to get to this point on the PlayStation 3, so how does Microsoft think they’re going to hit the same schedule? I mean, even if we could do our part and deliver a chip to them on time…and I’m extremely doubtful we could…how can they possibly do all the stuff they have to do to get a console ready by then and also have games available to play on it?”

      Akrout didn’t blink. It took me a second, but I got the message. He was such an optimist, he actually thought Gates’s people might just pull it off, with our help.

      I slumped into my chair again, waiting for the next shoe to drop, while Akrout morphed into a used-car salesman—his sly grin, a smooth-as-silk voice, that sophisticated French accent. “In addition to your role on the PlayStation 3 chip, I want you to take the technical lead position for the Microsoft microprocessor project,” he said. “You’re the only person with the knowledge and skills to pull it off on this insanely aggressive schedule.”

      I had extremely mixed feelings about the offer. I was flattered but still felt like a two-timer. I loved Akrout. In his finest moments, he was completely capable of convincing his people to follow him over a cliff. He knew exactly where my buttons were, knew I couldn’t resist a high-flying challenge. I was such a sucker. My plate was already full, as was that of my team. I rarely got home in time to tuck my little boys into bed at night. Piling on more work, especially work that approached the shady side of impossible, would not be smart.

      After some internal debate, my pride delivered a deathblow to my anger and perhaps to my common sense. “I’m pretty sure one of us is going to regret this,” I said as I shook Akrout’s extended hand. “I accept your offer.”

      My goals were very clear when I joined IBM in the mid-1980s. I wanted cutting-edge microprocessor design projects that really pushed the state of the art. I wanted to lead design teams and leave my mark on the industry. This vision was the focal point of my whole career. Akrout handed me one of the top technology leadership positions in the entire industry and, for one brief moment, I saw the top of the mountain, everything I wanted. Would I have to stake my claim by screwing Sony and extending Microsoft’s dominance of digital life? Or could I help them both succeed?

      CHAPTER 1

      The Holy Grail Vision

      At the heart of every successful technical accomplishment, there first existed a bold vision that inspired the team.

      Onward Through the Fog. Live Music Capital of the World. Hillary Is Hot! You’re just jealous because the voices only talk to me. Save the Giant Flying Vampire Armadillos.

      THIS STRANGE ARRAY OF BUMPER STICKERS on the Volkswagen van in front of me held my attention a moment too long, and I almost missed my turn. I take pride in being a nonconformist, but in Austin, Texas, where “Keep Austin Weird” is the city slogan, I clearly reside deep in “normal” territory. It was February of 2001, and little did I know that I was about to jump on board the ride of my life.

      I parked in front of the Gingerman Bar, the epitome of Austin’s funky hippie-yuppie lifestyle. It was once a favorite hangout of mine, and I hadn’t been there in years. I came to meet an old friend who wanted to discuss a job with me. A secret interview, he’d cautioned seriously when he phoned. I came mostly out of curiosity, for I was not in the job market. I glanced around the parking lot but didn’t see anyone I knew, no one to break my cover—I already disliked all this cloak and dagger stuff.

      A cool breeze cut through me when I stepped out of my car, making me glad I’d swapped my baggy cargo shorts for a pair of faded jeans. Sandals flapped against my heels as I walked. No suit, tie, and spit-shined shoes, no well-crafted resume in hand. I heaved open the massive door, pulling against the wind. I barely squeezed inside before the door sucked closed behind me with a bang, nearly hitting me in the heels. I glanced into the entryway mirror and brushed a hand across my hair, but it was stubborn and chose to stick straight up despite my best efforts. Good enough, I thought, as I flapped a hand at my disheveled reflection.

      Dim overhead lights and meager sunlight from the grimy windows did little to brighten the spacious bar. I snagged my Oakley sunglasses into the top buttonhole of my Hawaiian shirt.

      “Shippy!”

      I turned and moved in the general direction of the voice. Even though I couldn’t see well enough to identify the speaker, I knew who it was: the man I came to see. My eyes adjusted, and I spotted Jim Kahle in a corner booth. I lifted a hand in recognition and headed that way, weaving between a jumble of mismatched tables and chairs where a handful of patrons sipped tall glasses of beer.

      I studied my old friend as I approached. He was fortyish, but he looked as lean and athletic as ever. Yellow polo shirt tucked into faded blue jeans. Well-worn running shoes. He still brushed his wavy sandy-blond hair straight back, but now it revealed a deeply receding hairline and a sunburned forehead.

      He stood up to greet me, and we shook hands and patted each other on the back. Two years had passed since the last time we met, so all week I’d looked forward to seeing him again.

      Kahle and I shared a long intertwined history as microprocessor designers at IBM. We first met in the fall of 1989 when I transferred from Endicott, New York, to Austin, where Kahle became my manager. We clicked right away. We both possessed an aggressive style, a hard work ethic, and a “victory or death” attitude about work and life in general. We found common interests outside of the office including soccer, water skiing, and drinking beer. Ten years later, at the height of the technology boom, I left IBM to seek my own mythical dot-com fame and fortune at a local startup company. Kahle stayed on at IBM, diligently climbing the corporate ladder, becoming a Distinguished Engineer, a recognized force throughout the company. His team produced the microprocessor chips that put IBM in the lead in high-performance Unix servers and powered Apple’s resurgence in the personal computer market.

      I slipped into the opposite side of the booth, sinking into well-worn burgundy leather. I teased him about the need for secrecy. “What’s up with that?” I asked. “Don’t tell me…the CIA wants us to solve the problems with global security,