For his next two records, "Broken" and "The Downward Spiral," the technology became something of an obsession, something to play with, something to deconstruct. It was in the spirit of artists like Jimi Hendrix who lit their guitars on fire or smashed them into amps to find new sounds. "I had a whole new tool chest of things that no one had ruined yet," Reznor says. "No one had figured out the wrong way to do it or the interesting way to do it."

This was best achieved, he decided, by throwing away the manual and experimenting as he would with a new videogame, pressing random buttons and veering off beyond the screen to see what would happen next. In the song "March of Pigs," for example, he purposefully recorded an out-of-tune sample of a drum kit, then played it back through a keyboard to create a sound that was at once robotic and organic.

But his explorations soon bore surprises of their own. The software Reznor was using became so unreliable that he would come back the night after recording to find the computer spitting out undistinguishable sounds. Instead of starting over, he decided to record the weird output, to capture the spontaneity of this strange new collaboration. Computers were no longer just tools for Nine Inch Nails, he says: They were "musical companions."

The companions, however, soon began to conspire against him. While completing "The Downward Spiral" in 1994, Reznor downloaded Doom, the new first-person shooter from id Software. Reznor, who had lost many nights to id's previous game, Wolfenstein 3-D, saw production grind to a halt once again. "I just could not believe the great action, super politically incorrect demons and all kinds of cool stuff," he recalls. "We lost our minds."

Reznor became so addicted to the game that he even brought a desktop PC for his tour bus so that he could keep playing. On a stop in Dallas, he invited the creators at id Software to come backstage to his show. "They reminded me of my best friends I had in high school who sat in the computer lab all day," he says. "It was very cool. I was like in awe of them." Reznor ended up composing the sound effects for their next game, Quake.

By the time he was ready to record his next album, Reznor felt that maybe he'd had enough of computers for the time being. He thought it was a good moment to bring a real live carbon-based band of collaborators into the studio once and for all. To prepare, Reznor rented a house by the ocean in Big Sur and began writing songs at a grand piano. The results, he quickly decided, sucked. "Once I start sounding like Willie Nelson," he says, "then I'm like, OK, I have to get back to the computer."

He returned to machines with a vengeance to record 1999's "The Fragile." Everything at this point could be composed on the computer. A new world had arrived filled with virtual instruments that could sound as good as, if not better than, real ones, all the way down to "the badness of them," Reznor says, "the buzzes and the rattles." He could have an entire studio of guitars and amps reduced to one little chip. It was literally too good to be true. Reznor became overwhelmed by the possibilities. Suddenly, there were dozens of tracks to manage, files to organize, programs to debug. Everything, he felt, was falling apart. "We're at a crisis point," he told his crew. "We can't continue this record."

To save the process, Reznor backed away from the machines for the first time in his life. He let someone else do the programming. Though the album was completed, Reznor found parts of the experience frustrating. He felt unable to express himself as fluidly as he did when he knew exactly what he could get from the computers.

Today as he prepares to record his next album and compose the soundtrack for the Doom III game, he has arrived at this necessary, though not entirely happy, medium. "I just spent the last month reading software manuals every day," he says with a sigh. "I learned that I don't want to relinquish that [programming] duty to others. I will day to day. But I need to be able to sit down and do what I want to do if I want to do it."

The result, he suggests, might owe as much to Hank Williams as to Nine Inch Nails. Reznor says he's been listening to country greats like Williams, Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash on his iPod MP3 player while walking his dog around town. "I'm not going to be singing blues in a country format," he assures me, "but this music has been making me appreciate simplicity and directness."

He's even been contemplating a tour in Europe with a string quartet. It's another way to challenge himself to not lose sight of his craft. "Just because you can buy a box of software now for a couple hundred bucks that can make a great-sounding album," he says, "that doesn't mean you're going to make a great record. What matters are the songs."

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