In 1986, one of our studio’s top creatives walked into a little game publisher in Mountain View, California and asked the receptionist if he could buy the latest title from his favorite game developer. The company had never sold a game direct to a consumer before, but they took his cash and, somehow, came up with change. He thanked them and was turning to leave when the president came out of his office to see who this dedicated fan was. They talked for an hour and the president ended up offering him some freelance work writing manuals for a couple of upcoming games. A year later, he was lead developer on the PC version of the biggest gamble that company had ever taken — an ambitious RPG that they were funding out of their own cash reserves.

Funny thing is, in the early days of games, that wasn’t such an unusual story. There was an intimacy, a shared love for the way games could inspire imaginations, teach fascinating things and create excitement, a way that had never really existed before. By the 1990’s that shared love of games had built not just clusters of fans, but thriving communities, from the fanatical players of Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat to the followings of little upstarts like Bungie and Blizzard. But as games grew, something happened that changed things forever.

Publisher funding.

When publishers started advancing money to devs to make their games, they wanted to make sure their investment was put to good use. Of course they did. They started getting involved in design and creative. They started setting deadlines for their benefit, instead of the good of the game. And, of course, publishers learned very quickly that games, like every other form of entertainment, can be risky. So they started looking for safer bets. And now, three decades later, we see where that’s led. They try to manufacture communities instead of nourishing them. They spend enormous sums chasing last year’s hit. One of our creatives led studios that turned in billions before he finally recognized the damage Wall Street and Hollywood were doing to games and walked away. It’s not their fault. They just don’t know what else to do.

We do.

We’re committed to revitalizing that shared love of the fun of games. We’re committed to nurturing instead of manufacturing. We’re committed to listening. And, when we publish other teams’ work, we’ll treat them the way Trip Hawkins treated independent devs in the early days of EA, as artists, as creatives and technologists who deserve to benefit from their vision and commitment instead of eking out just enough to survive as sharecroppers.