The months stretched into two years, and development slowed due to the changing technology, not to mention warring factions of the team and management. I figured Daikatana could end up like "Titanic," the movie, or Titanic, the ship. Either we were going to take over the world or go down in flames.

There were already icebergs, seen and unseen, all around us. Expectations for the game were beyond high and climbing. An early hint manual was prepared as an ad supplement without the game actually being ready. Marketing moved faster than the team possibly could, causing more rumblings. Dark clouds circled the horizon.

Yet I had boyish confidence. This was a visionary approach to the genre, and if first person shooter games were to evolve, then Daikatana would be the next logical step. When John told me that story and dialogue would be integral to Daikatana, he stressed his desire to push the boundaries, to make the world emotionally immersive. He wanted the epic quality of the Final Fantasy games, that unique brand of anime science fantasy romanticism.

Basically, John wanted Daikatana to be like playing a movie. He realized that the shooter genre would have to move beyond "just blowing shit up," as he often put it. John laid out the basic storyline, that of Hiro Miyamoto (a homage to legendary Nintendo designer Shigeru Miyamoto) and his quest for the mythical Daikatana (awkward translation: Big-Sword) through the halls of disrupted time. Along with the de rigueur violent action, there would be personal drama, moral challenges, complex time-travel physics and a surprising revelation at the climax. This was certainly beyond the scope of Duke Nukem and Quake 2.

John went all out. Daikatana would have two sidekick characters, four different environments, over 30 weapons and monsters, and extensive cinematics between gameplay. John even wanted the Greek level to mimic animation master Ray Harryhausen's mythological style. Caught up in the storytelling possibilities, I envisioned the apocalyptic San Francisco as a psychedelic wasteland.

But I learned how valuable my ideas were when I excitedly approached a designer about making a psychedelic level in Haight/Ashbury.

"Yeah, man, sure, that's gay," was his arctic response.

I'd forgotten I was just a writer. The designers were in charge of the environments.

Despite all the negative drama, I was still happy. How could I not be? These were strange and wondrous days. Settled in my cozy steel cube, scented candles burning, shelves lined with GI Joes, a poster of Steve McQueen as Bullitt watching my back, Air's cool vibes playing from my speakers, getting paid to write for a visionary computer game -- dreams were coming true all around me. I was living a boy's adventure tale.

Those are my best memories of Ion Storm, those midnight hours of writing between bouts of Web-surfing, staring at the lit planes above or the twinkling carpet of Dallas below. My head was literally in the clouds. I loved the cathedral silence of the immense Chase building. I was a corporate voyeur, staring at empty offices and halls, walking alone under fluorescent lights, driving down the sterile tollway at 3 a.m., retinal Quake residue making the road an endless hall sans monsters as Delirium's gothic trance soundtracked my ride.

To me, Dallas was a bland, yet protean, city of the future, and Ion Storm a citadel of electronic creativity. On the edge of the 21st century, I tried to take nothing for granted.

Which is why the bitter complaints from some employees felt hollow. There were absolutely valid reasons to gripe about the direction Ion Storm was headed, but feeding that ambiance of defeat seemed, well, defeatist. Not that I didn't bitch. During cigarette breaks, I would join the others in condemning the rampaging egos and control-freaks. Still, I had faith that Daikatana and the company could rise above the bullshit. Look up "naive" in Webster's and see me wave.

My own turn at Daikatana controversy came in the form of Hiro's sidekick, Superfly Johnson. I originally named him Superfly Williams -- in honor of the classic blaxploitation film/soundtrack and Jim Kelly's character from "Enter The Dragon." Superfly was to be of French origin, his name taken from the few cultural documents left in the apocalyptic future. His character arc would be finding out his real identity at the end. Not too heady, but certainly not a stereotype. I tried to explain to the genuinely concerned designers that the name Superfly came from a great 1972 film and greater Curtis Mayfield soundtrack.

The very next day, one of the designers brought in the Lifestyle setion of the Dallas Morning News, featuring a front-page article on the cultural resurgence of blaxploitation films...and the 20th anniversary re-release of the Superfly soundtrack.

I was vindicated until the game's release: Superfly "Johnson" now ran around the levels and said, "Wassup?" He was awarded most stereotypical character in game history by a few gaming sites. I still defend Superfly's noble origin, and in an industry of jive-talkin', afro-wearin', pimped-out black video game characters (as in Tekken or Interstate 76), I don't think Daikatana can accept the award. I noted that most gamers had no problem with sexist female characters -- as in Duke Nukem, where the player is encouraged to splatter half-naked strippers.

After Daikatana, I moved gratefully into the cultural oasis of Austin to work on Warren Spector's Deus Ex. In terms of publicity and controversy, Ion Austin had it made. Far from Dallas, Spector's low-profile approach kept the game out of the cyber cross-fire. The team and office were smaller, and Deus Ex had a tighter deadline that kept everything in focus.

Meanwhile, the news from home base got worse. After my Austin transfer, nine core members of the Daikatana team walked out. A bigger conflagration came when the Dallas Observer ran a cover story called "Stormy Weather" about Ion's internal strife. Filled with fact and gossip, punctuated by leaked e-mails, the story brought the ownership woes to the public-at-large. No matter what I thought of the control freaks at work who were sinking the company, I thought it was sleazy and irresponsible to publish private e-mails, especially ones that revealed employee salaries. I fired off an angry missive telling the Observer that Ion was making video games, not hiding toxic waste.

Daikatana and Deus Ex were finally released in 2000. Predictably, Daikatana was slammed while Deus Ex received many awards. Both made money for Eidos, but the walk-outs, firings, lawsuits and general bad blood doomed Ion Storm. After the release of Anachronox, Eidos pulled the plug on Dallas. Game over.

Everybody who came to Ion Storm had their life changed one way or another. I made eternal friends, loved a wonderful woman, had fabulous adventures. The memories are vivid enough to hold in my hand, and I enjoy revisiting them. We'll especially remember Doug "Fresh" Myres, one of the genuine good guys in the industry, who left our world earlier this year. The outpouring of grief and love for Fresh was proof that the gaming community does care. From Austin to Dallas, I encountered the deepest hearts of Texas.

The rows of steel cubes and banks of computers in Dallas are empty and silent as I write these words. Ghosts of late-night Deathmatches fill that Southern space. The clouds have vanished and the Ion Storm has finally passed. In the end, I don't care what the online bitchers have to say. I was glad to be on my side of the keyboard rather than theirs. In case I haven't told you lately, John, thanks again for letting me share your dream.

It was hardcore.

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