So there I was, atop the 54th floor of the Chase Building, the tallest and most exclusive in Dallas, a glass and chrome Wonkaland (minus the scary Oompa-Loompas). Across the street below stood a red brick church, a small icon of faith in the midst of this corporate metropolis. Jets and airplanes coasted overhead, close enough to imagine a disaster movie scenario. The company's layout was a hi-tech wet dream: pool tables; arcade games; big-screen TV room; private theater; cozy leather couches; $1500 chairs; even a shower for unclean and dedicated employees. Each game team also had a cache of unlimited sodas and treats. No, it wasn't too bad.

Ion came in for constant attack because of its extravagant digs. The critique wasn't entirely offbase. Most people in the computer industry do their intense work under the cloak of dark rooms and lit screens. Enclosed by vast sheets of glass, Ion was more like an air aquarium, with shafts of hot Texas sun cutting into every nook and cranny. The various teams ended up covering their cubicles in black sheets. A warehouse far from downtown Dallas might have been more suitable, and certainly cheaper.

The first months of Ion Storm had all the excitement of any new relationship. Everybody was high on life (and from 4:20 breaks). I began to meet my co-workers. One salient aspect of the computer industry is the lack of social conventions -- and graces. Few people ever introduced themselves to me when I arrived, so I made a concentrated effort to shake hands and ask questions.

The artists were the easiest people to know, the ones I admired the most. Maybe because they're the grunts of the industry, painting pixels and rendering shapes, creative and controlled, and the ones who went home at a decent hour. I envied them their cool gig. 21 year-olds getting paid up to $50,000 a year to draw monsters. Wow.

The cliche that a company is only as good as its people is true, and Ion Storm had an amazing collection of employees: some wildly talented, some borderline geniuses, some major oddballs, and some total dicks. There were Christians, Mormons, Buddhists, a shitload of atheists, and only 2.5 women at any given moment; it was good to have them around. The median age was probably 25, and you could talk with anybody about Godzilla, Ayn Rand, Bill Hicks, Noam Chomsky, Phillip Glass, Jack Kirby, Barry Adamson, John Carpenter, Stephen Jay Gould, Yukio Mishima, the Illuminati, Douglas Adams, everything under the sub-cultural sun.

Cubes were decorated with erotic anime posters, the inevitable Star Wars toys and indecipherable Todd Mcfarlane figures. The films "Alien," "Aliens," "Blade Runner" and "Evil Dead II" were undoubtedly the most influential. Swiss surrealist H.R. Giger was hands-down the most imitated artist; no level design was complete without a shameless variation on his brilliant and disturbing bio-mechanic artwork. Japanese manga was the art-style of choice, though there were many overbulky superheroes. Music tastes ranged from A-Ha to Zappa. A John Williams soundtrack blared from one cube while Nine Inch Nails blasted from another. Yes, a true geek fantasy.

Despite the social misfit-ism, the game world is far more accessible and democratic than any other media industry. Designers, programmers and artists are in constant touch through the global network. Getting a dream job can be as simple as sending off a great Quake map to a bigwig -- as when Luke Whiteside was hired after sending John a sample of his work. One's skill or talent at design is self-evident without a Ph.D., or a capacity for tunneling through bureacracy. Ion's critics never bothered to acknowledge that John always searched out and encouraged new talent for his company. He never forgot his gaming grass-roots or the people that had helped him out. This was the creative environment that Ion fostered.

Then came the infamous ad.

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