future products in some derivative form, I never imagined it would happen before the current job for Sony was finished. I wasn’t ready to consider the demands of an additional customer, especially one that presented such a vast conflict of interest.
“How did this happen?” I grumbled through gritted teeth, still looking at the cracks in the yellowed wall. Fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered above me, creating weird shadows that bumped into each other in the corners of the room.
“Let’s just say it was a blockbuster, an offer IBM couldn’t refuse,” he answered. Lest I think the stakes of the enterprise were small, Akrout told me that over a billion dollars was involved, spanning the entire spectrum from development to chip manufacturing. Microsoft’s Bill Gates approached Sam Palmisano, IBM’s CEO, about designing the next generation Xbox microprocessor chip. The IBM sales team laid out every other chip option they possessed or could dream up, but nothing caught the interest of Gates’s team. Then a senior IBM engineer from another division disclosed to Microsoft some of the most sensitive details of the microprocessor core I was designing for the Sony chip.
My jaw dropped at this news, and I spun around to face Akrout. That was my baby! It was as if they had snuck an unauthorized Polaroid out of the labor and delivery room and posted it on the Internet. This was personal. IBM is a big company, spread across many locations and organized into a complicated web of semi-related divisions, each with its own mission, its own independent team. Even so, I had a reasonable expectation to be included in any discussions with potential clients for my processor. I fumed and raged about the subterfuge, but in the undercurrents beneath my anger, a more familiar beast took a deep, satisfying breath—my pride. Microsoft’s interest was flattering, a high compliment to my team’s virtuosity. We designed the fastest microprocessor in the industry, one that broke numerous performance records. It was tiny, and it consumed very little power. We gave Sony’s little game box the performance of a supercomputer, driving a deep shaft into a goldmine of riches for IBM that would endure for years.
“Dave, you and your team have done an amazing job. I’m proud of your work.” Akrout was quick and generous with his praise, and because of my respect for him, his approval meant a great deal. Grinning, he added, “It was your team’s microprocessor that turned Microsoft’s head and convinced them to strike a deal with us.”
“Of course it did,” I retorted, rocking forward in my chair. That’s the only thing he’d said that hadn’t surprised me. “Given all the bad blood between IBM and Microsoft, I’ll bet they considered every other option before they came to us, didn’t they? And I can tell you what they discovered. The folks at Intel and AMD can’t deliver anything like this.”
Did I mention that we chip designers are as competitive as Top Gun pilots?
“There’s more,” Akrout said. He sank back into his chair, a subtle shift of body language, but enough to tell me he didn’t like relaying the next tidbit of news any more than he had the first. He ran a hand across his thinning black hair and sighed. “Microsoft wants something very similar to what you designed for Sony but with some unique enhancements, and they want it on the same schedule.” He then described the design changes Microsoft needed for a super-aggressive, market-shaking Christmas 2005 launch.
“That’s crazy!” I shouted, and slapped a hand down on the table. “It’s practically a total redesign. It took us two and a half years to get to this point on the PlayStation 3, so how does Microsoft think they’re going to hit the same schedule? I mean, even if we could do our part and deliver a chip to them on time…and I’m extremely doubtful we could…how can they possibly do all the stuff they have to do to get a console ready by then and also have games available to play on it?”
Akrout didn’t blink. It took me a second, but I got the message. He was such an optimist, he actually thought Gates’s people might just pull it off, with our help.
I slumped into my chair again, waiting for the next shoe to drop, while Akrout morphed into a used-car salesman—his sly grin, a smooth-as-silk voice, that sophisticated French accent. “In addition to your role on the PlayStation 3 chip, I want you to take the technical lead position for the Microsoft microprocessor project,” he said. “You’re the only person with the knowledge and skills to pull it off on this insanely aggressive schedule.”
I had extremely mixed feelings about the offer. I was flattered but still felt like a two-timer. I loved Akrout. In his finest moments, he was completely capable of convincing his people to follow him over a cliff. He knew exactly where my buttons were, knew I couldn’t resist a high-flying challenge. I was such a sucker. My plate was already full, as was that of my team. I rarely got home in time to tuck my little boys into bed at night. Piling on more work, especially work that approached the shady side of impossible, would not be smart.
After some internal debate, my pride delivered a deathblow to my anger and perhaps to my common sense. “I’m pretty sure one of us is going to regret this,” I said as I shook Akrout’s extended hand. “I accept your offer.”
My goals were very clear when I joined IBM in the mid-1980s. I wanted cutting-edge microprocessor design projects that really pushed the state of the art. I wanted to lead design teams and leave my mark on the industry. This vision was the focal point of my whole career. Akrout handed me one of the top technology leadership positions in the entire industry and, for one brief moment, I saw the top of the mountain, everything I wanted. Would I have to stake my claim by screwing Sony and extending Microsoft’s dominance of digital life? Or could I help them both succeed?
CHAPTER 1
The Holy Grail Vision
At the heart of every successful technical accomplishment, there first existed a bold vision that inspired the team.
Onward Through the Fog. Live Music Capital of the World. Hillary Is Hot! You’re just jealous because the voices only talk to me. Save the Giant Flying Vampire Armadillos.
THIS STRANGE ARRAY OF BUMPER STICKERS on the Volkswagen van in front of me held my attention a moment too long, and I almost missed my turn. I take pride in being a nonconformist, but in Austin, Texas, where “Keep Austin Weird” is the city slogan, I clearly reside deep in “normal” territory. It was February of 2001, and little did I know that I was about to jump on board the ride of my life.
I parked in front of the Gingerman Bar, the epitome of Austin’s funky hippie-yuppie lifestyle. It was once a favorite hangout of mine, and I hadn’t been there in years. I came to meet an old friend who wanted to discuss a job with me. A secret interview, he’d cautioned seriously when he phoned. I came mostly out of curiosity, for I was not in the job market. I glanced around the parking lot but didn’t see anyone I knew, no one to break my cover—I already disliked all this cloak and dagger stuff.
A cool breeze cut through me when I stepped out of my car, making me glad I’d swapped my baggy cargo shorts for a pair of faded jeans. Sandals flapped against my heels as I walked. No suit, tie, and spit-shined shoes, no well-crafted resume in hand. I heaved open the massive door, pulling against the wind. I barely squeezed inside before the door sucked closed behind me with a bang, nearly hitting me in the heels. I glanced into the entryway mirror and brushed a hand across my hair, but it was stubborn and chose to stick straight up despite my best efforts. Good enough, I thought, as I flapped a hand at my disheveled reflection.
Dim overhead lights and meager sunlight from the grimy windows did little to brighten the spacious bar. I snagged my Oakley sunglasses into the top buttonhole of my Hawaiian shirt.
“Shippy!”
I turned and moved in the general direction of the voice. Even though I couldn’t
