The tall guy pulled up a chair, sat down, and clicked to enlarge the image.
In the photo, investors in suits were crammed around a flimsy folding table.
"We spent six months on that dental software and made a total of three thousand dollars," the tall guy said, rubbing his dry eyes. "That medical record search algorithm... if we rewrote it as an item drop logic for a game, it would be more efficient than most RPGs on the market."
"The key is that the barrier to entry is gone," Eric said, tapping the desk. "In the past, making a 3D game meant writing your own rendering pipeline and figuring out physics collisions yourself. Now with the UE Engine, Carmack has handled all the grunt work. We just need to plug in the art assets and gameplay logic."
And it wasn't just the computer labs at Berkeley.
That night, similar conversations were taking place in countless garages across Silicon Valley, in the cubicles of Seattle's software firms, and even in college dorms on the East Coast.
The live reports posted by the media online were like stones thrown into a lake, creating ripples that spread far beyond anyone's expectations.
The game content announced on the second day lacked the immediate visual impact of the first. There were no four-disc Final Fantasy CGs, no Mario performing 3D jumps. The information density was higher, the barrier to entry steeper.
While casual gamers watched for the spectacle, developers looked for the real substance.
The open-source engine project acted like a massive magnet, drawing the gaze of developers across America and the globe. Software teams who had been operating in databases, enterprise applications, and even financial modeling suddenly realized that the barriers to the gaming industry had been smashed open.
Technology was no longer a black box monopolized by a few giants. With just a spark of creativity and the underlying framework provided by Carmack, small teams could now carve out a piece of the next-gen stage.
The South Wing Pavilion, as described in David's report, had become the gold rush destination in their minds.
A small software outsourcing company in San Francisco.
Thomas, the boss and lead programmer, pushed open the office door.
It was already two in the morning, but a few employees were still working overtime, rushing to finish an inventory management system.
Thomas walked to the water cooler, filled a cup with cold water, and slapped a printed exhibition report onto the table.
"Stop what you're doing for now," Thomas said, taking a sip of water. "Tomorrow's deadline is postponed."
The employees looked up, their faces filled with confusion.
"I just finished reading the E3 follow-up report," Thomas said, pointing to the text on the paper. "Ubisoft bought a half-finished tactical RPG at the show. The pathfinding algorithm in that game isn't even half as good as the logistics planning module we wrote last month."
He scanned his exhausted subordinates.
"We have ready-made network synchronization technology and excellent database architecture experience. Why are we here writing inventory systems for supermarket chains instead of making a strategy game that can be played on a LAN?"
The employees exchanged glances. One of the bespectacled programmers raised his hand.
"Boss, we don't have any artists, and we don't know a thing about level design."
"Go find them at the expo." Thomas rolled the paper into a tube. "Tomorrow is the third day of E3, the one open to the general public. That place is basically a giant flea market right now. The rich are there to buy teams; the poor are there to form them. We'll drive to Los Angeles, do a lap around the South Wing Pavilion, and we're bound to find a few broke artists who can draw."
This was no isolated incident.
After the reports about the small studio went viral the next afternoon, a hidden current began to surge through the software industry. Teams that had never even considered developing a game were now getting their heads spun by the investment myths circulating at the expo.
Two-hundred-thousand-dollar checks were being signed on folding tables.
This kind of crude, direct capital operation was far more effective than any recruitment ad.
Los Angeles' traffic faced its true test on the morning of the third day. The first two days, Media Days, had only allowed professionals, keeping the crowds manageable. But on the third day, hardcore gamers from all over California and the surrounding areas poured out in droves.
Traffic heading toward downtown on Interstate 10 was backed up in a long line.
The license plates were a mixed bag. There were plates from Nevada, Arizona, and even some from Oregon, driven overnight.
A beat-up Ford sedan crawled forward in the traffic. Inside were Eric and his two roommates. They had left Berkeley in the middle of the night, taking turns driving, and finally reached the outskirts of Los Angeles after sunrise.
"It's completely jammed ahead," the roommate at the wheel said, stepping on the brake and pulling the handbrake. "Are these people crazy? It's just a game show."
Eric leaned his head out the window, staring at the endless stream of cars ahead and behind. In a convertible parked next to them, a group of young people were swaying to the deafening heavy metal music blasting from their car stereo.
"That's what you don't understand," Eric said, pulling back into the car and flipping open the magazine in his hands. "A $199 N64, free Blizzard Battle.net, and that Resident Evil game that'll scare you shitless. If it were you, wouldn't you want to get your hands on the real hardware the first chance you got?"
"We're not here to play games," the tall guy in the backseat corrected him. "We're here to find investors. You brought the proposal we wrote last night, right?"
Eric patted the backpack beside him.
Inside were a few sketches and a stack of printed code. This was the game concept they'd pieced together during their five-hour drive.
"If we can just squeeze into the South Wing Pavilion and snag an investment manager from EA or Sega, even fifty thousand dollars would make us rich," Eric said, brimming with confidence.
The same scene was playing out at every entrance to the convention center.
Ordinary gamers had come to experience the magic of next-generation consoles. But mixed in with them were countless aspiring indie developers like Eric, all harboring dreams of striking it rich.
At 9:00 AM, the gates of the E3 Convention Center officially opened to the public.
Security personnel unhooked the stanchions.
The crowd surged into the Central Hall like a tide.
Within five minutes, a massive line had already formed at Nintendo's booth. Players were willing to wait for two hours in the sweltering venue just to get their hands on that oddly shaped, asymmetrical controller and experience the sensation of controlling Mario's jumps in a fully 3D space.
Sony's area was equally packed. Kazuo Hirai's concept of "lightweight gaming" had been a huge hit with casual players. The bright, colorful, and easy-to-play games attracted many female gamers who had come along with their boyfriends.
Sega's section, on the other hand, was a haven for hardcore tech enthusiasts. Circles of people formed around the Virtua Fighter 3 arcade cabinets. Each time Akira Yuki landed a flashy combo and smashed a stone pillar in the background, a cheer erupted from the crowd. The million-polygon physical rendering exerted an overwhelming visual dominance on the CRT screens.
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