The $55 Billion Question
On September 28, 2025, Electronic Arts filed an 8-K with the Securities and Exchange Commission announcing that it had entered into an Agreement and Plan of Merger with Oak-Eagle AcquireCo, Inc. — a shell entity controlled by a consortium comprising Saudi Arabia's Public Investment Fund, Silver Lake, and Jared Kushner's Affinity Partners. The price: $55 billion, the largest leveraged buyout in the history of private equity. The stock jumped 5.7% the next morning, which tells you something about how the public markets had valued the company — and how much they'd missed. For years, EA had traded like what it appeared to be: a legacy publisher grinding out annualized sports titles and first-person shooters, a business whose best days were anchored to the muscle memory of gamers who'd grown up mashing the A button. Yet here was the world's largest sovereign wealth fund, flanked by the most sophisticated technology-focused private equity firm on the planet, betting that this particular forty-three-year-old company — a company that had been voted the "Worst Company in America" by Consumerist readers in both 2012 and 2013, that had endured the "EA Spouse" labor scandal of 2004, that had cycled through CEOs and corporate identities like console generations — was worth more than all but a handful of entertainment companies on earth.
The deal encapsulated the central paradox of Electronic Arts. This is a company that has operated at the exact intersection of creative volatility and commercial durability for over four decades — a business built on art that behaves, in its best moments, like infrastructure. Its franchises are not merely games. They are recurring platforms of social interaction — digital stadiums, virtual cities, persistent ecosystems — that generate revenue not through one-time transactions but through continuous engagement. And the gap between how the public perceives EA (the cynical monetizer, the franchise mill, the loot-box villain) and what EA actually is (one of the most sophisticated live-service entertainment operations ever constructed) is, arguably, the entire investment thesis.
By the Numbers
Electronic Arts at a Glance
$7.56BNet revenue, FY2025 (ended March 31, 2025)
~75%Revenue from live services and digital
$55BAnnounced go-private buyout (September 2025)
~12,500Employees worldwide (as of early 2025)
42+Years since founding (1982)
$1.56BNet income, FY2024
700M+Unique active accounts across EA network
To understand how a company founded in a San Mateo garage in 1982 — in the wreckage of the first video game crash — became the object of the largest private equity buyout in history, you have to understand something about the nature of interactive entertainment as a business. It is, perhaps uniquely among media categories, a sector where the cost of failure is absolute (a bad game is worthless, a mediocre game nearly so) and the reward for enduring relevance compounds in ways that look less like Hollywood and more like enterprise software. The story of EA is the story of a company that figured this out — slowly, painfully, through a series of reinventions that each nearly killed it.
The Apple Employee Who Saw the Future
Trip Hawkins was not, by any reasonable standard, an obvious candidate to build one of the defining entertainment companies of the late twentieth century. A strategy enthusiast who'd studied under game theory pioneers at Harvard, he joined Apple Computer in 1978 as employee number 68, working directly under
Steve Jobs on the business side during the company's formative explosion. What Hawkins absorbed at Apple was not technical expertise but something harder to acquire: an understanding of how platform transitions create windows of extraordinary value creation, and how the company that moves first into that window — with the right combination of creative product and distribution infrastructure — captures disproportionate returns.
He left Apple in 1982, months before the company's first major stumble, with a vision that was simultaneously grandiose and precise. Hawkins wanted to build the first brand-name publisher for interactive entertainment — a company that would do for games what United Artists had done for film. The name he chose, Electronic Arts, was itself a manifesto. Not Electronic Games. Not Soft-Tech Interactive. Arts. The company's early packaging, designed to look like album covers, listed the game designers' names prominently, treating programmers as auteurs. This wasn't merely aesthetic posturing. It was a talent acquisition strategy disguised as branding — a way to attract the best developers by promising them something the industry's existing publishers (Activision, Atari) did not: creative credit, and the dignity that came with it.
I wanted to create an environment where software artists could be treated the way that recording artists and film directors were being treated — where the creative talent was the star, not the company.
The early catalog reflected this philosophy. Titles like Pinball Construction Set, Archon, and Hard Hat Mack were released in 1983 — each designed by an identifiable creator, each packaged with the kind of liner-note biographical treatment usually reserved for jazz albums. And this was happening during the Atari-driven video game crash of 1983-84, when the console market collapsed so thoroughly that retailers were literally burying unsold cartridges in New Mexico landfills. Hawkins had the foresight, or the luck, to bet on personal computers rather than consoles — the Apple II, the Commodore 64 — which insulated EA from the worst of the crash.
But Hawkins' most consequential early decision was structural. He established EA not merely as a developer but as a publisher-distributor, building direct relationships with retailers that allowed the company to control shelf placement, pricing, and inventory. In an industry where most game makers relied on third-party distributors who treated their products like interchangeable commodity widgets, this was a profound competitive advantage. It was the skeleton key to everything that followed.
The IPO That Shouldn't Have Worked
Electronic Arts went public in 1989 — seven years after its founding — at a moment when the video game industry was still viewed by most institutional investors as barely distinguishable from the toy business. The offering priced on NASDAQ, and the reception was lukewarm. This was not a company that screamed "generational compounder" to the Wall Street of the late Reagan era.
What the prospectus revealed, however, was a business with unusual characteristics for a creative enterprise. EA had revenue of roughly $113 million in fiscal year 1989, was already profitable, and — critically — had begun to build something that no other game publisher possessed: a portfolio of annually recurring franchises anchored to real-world sports leagues. The company had released John Madden Football in 1988, initially for the Apple II, designed by Trip Hawkins himself with direct involvement from the legendary NFL coach. It was clunky, slow, and magnificent. Madden insisted on eleven-on-eleven gameplay — the full complement of players on each side — when every other football game used simplified rosters. This insistence on simulation fidelity, on replicating the actual cognitive texture of the sport, became the franchise's defining characteristic and its moat.
EA's first two decades
1982Trip Hawkins founds Electronic Arts in San Mateo, California, with $200,000 of his own money.
1983First titles ship: Hard Hat Mack, Pinball Construction Set, Archon. Atari crash devastates console market; EA's PC focus provides insulation.
1988John Madden Football releases on Apple II. The franchise will eventually generate billions.
1989EA goes public on NASDAQ. Revenue: ~$113 million.
1991EA enters the Sega Genesis market, reverse-engineering the console to produce unlicensed cartridges — forcing Sega into a licensing deal on favorable terms.
1993FIFA International Soccer launches. EA Sports brand established as umbrella for sports titles.
1997
The IPO was, in retrospect, the founding document of a particular kind of entertainment business — one that would generate returns not through individual hits (though it would have plenty) but through the compounding effect of franchise iteration across platform cycles. Every time a new console generation launched, EA's sports titles would ship as upgraded versions on Day One, capturing the installed base of the new hardware. Every annual release incorporated incremental improvements — better graphics, updated rosters, refined physics — that justified a fresh $50-60 purchase from a consumer who had already signaled, by buying the previous year's version, that they were a recurring customer. The economics of this model were extraordinary. Development costs were partially amortized across years, because each annual release built on the prior year's engine. Marketing costs declined as brand awareness compounded. And the exclusive licensing agreements EA began securing with professional sports leagues — the NFL, FIFA, the PGA Tour — created what amounted to legal monopolies on simulation sports gaming.
The Reverse-Engineering Gambit
If there is a single episode that captures EA's competitive temperament at its most audacious, it is the Sega Genesis affair. In 1990, Sega was ascendant. Its 16-bit Genesis console was outselling Nintendo's aging NES, and Sega's licensing terms — which required third-party developers to pay steep royalties and submit to quality-control gatekeeping — were the industry standard. Every publisher accepted these terms. EA did not.
Hawkins, still running the company, hired a team of engineers to reverse-engineer the Genesis hardware, figuring out how to produce cartridges that would run on the console without Sega's authorization or licensing fees. When EA presented Sega with a fait accompli — we can ship on your platform with or without your blessing — the negotiation dynamics inverted completely. Sega, faced with the prospect of losing EA's increasingly popular sports titles (or, worse, fighting a messy legal battle while EA's unlicensed cartridges flooded the market), agreed to licensing terms dramatically more favorable than what any other publisher received. EA got lower royalties, the right to manufacture its own cartridges, and control over its own quality assurance. As Blake J. Harris documents in
Console Wars, this was not merely a business negotiation. It was a declaration of principles about the relationship between content creators and platform owners — a dynamic that would define the game industry for the next three decades.
The episode also revealed something essential about EA's institutional character: a willingness to operate in the gray zone between legitimate competition and raw power politics. This was not a company that played nice. When EA wanted something — a licensing deal, a distribution channel, a competitor's talent — it pursued it with a directiveness that occasionally shaded into ruthlessness. The same instinct that led it to reverse-engineer Sega's hardware would later lead it to lock up exclusive NFL licensing rights in 2004, effectively killing the competing NFL 2K franchise (which had been outselling Madden at the time by offering a superior product at a lower price point). The exclusive deal cost EA a reported $300 million over five years. It was, depending on your perspective, either the most brilliant defensive moat construction in gaming history or the most cynical monopolistic act in the medium's commercial evolution. It was probably both.
The Sims and the Discovery of the Non-Gamer
In February 2000, a game about interior decoration and interpersonal relationships — a game with no guns, no sports, no competition in the traditional sense — became the best-selling PC game of all time. The Sims, designed by Will Wright (who had previously created SimCity for Maxis, a studio EA acquired in 1997), was an experiment that EA's internal culture almost killed. Multiple executives lobbied to cancel the project, which they derisively referred to as "the dollhouse game." Wright persisted, Maxis persisted, and when The Sims shipped, it didn't just sell. It expanded the market. Roughly 60% of its initial purchasers were women — in an industry where the customer base was overwhelmingly male. It attracted players who had never bought a game before and might never buy another one. The franchise would go on to sell over 200 million copies across its various iterations, making it the best-selling PC franchise in the history of the medium.
The Sims taught EA a lesson that the company has spent the subsequent quarter-century alternately absorbing and forgetting: that the most valuable gaming franchises are not the ones that serve existing gamers better, but the ones that create entirely new categories of player. FIFA's global appeal operates on a similar principle — it is, in much of the world, the first game someone plays, the gateway drug to the medium itself. These market-expanding franchises generate not just revenue but optionality. Every new player who enters the ecosystem through The Sims or FIFA or Apex Legends becomes a potential customer for every other EA product, a node in the network.
Wright himself — quiet, systems-obsessed, more interested in emergent behavior than narrative — was the anti-Hawkins. Where Hawkins sold vision, Wright built sandboxes. Where Hawkins understood distribution, Wright understood psychology. The tension between these two modes of thinking — the commercial operator and the creative eccentric — is the tension that has defined EA's entire history.
The Annual Franchise Machine
By the early 2000s, EA had perfected a model that was, in its mechanical precision, the envy of every entertainment company on earth. The annual sports franchise cycle worked like this: a base game engine would be developed over a multi-year cycle (typically three to four years for a genuinely new engine), while each annual iteration layered incremental improvements — updated rosters, refined physics, new game modes, graphical polish — on top of the existing foundation. Development teams of 100-200 people operated on fixed annual schedules synchronized with the real-world sports calendar. Madden NFL shipped every August, timed to the start of the NFL preseason. FIFA shipped every September, timed to the start of European football leagues. NHL shipped in September. NBA Live in October.
The financial characteristics of this model were remarkable. Gross margins on software were typically 60-70%, and because each annual title built on the prior year's engine and assets, the marginal cost of each new release was significantly lower than the cost of building a franchise from scratch. The exclusive licensing agreements — NFL (2004), FIFA (ongoing until 2023), various other leagues — created barriers to entry that no competitor could overcome through superior game design alone. You could build a better football game than Madden. You just couldn't put NFL teams and players in it.
It used to be the entire cadence of the organization revolved around accounting. The company was a disconnected organization made up of well-meaning people who weren't thinking about players first.
But the model had a pathology. Because each franchise was essentially a guaranteed revenue stream — consumers would buy the new Madden whether it was meaningfully improved or not — the incentive to innovate within franchises atrophied. The annual cycle became a treadmill. Development teams focused on features that photographed well in marketing materials (new celebration animations, updated commentary) rather than systemic improvements to gameplay. The games got shinier. They didn't necessarily get better. And the company's creative culture, which Hawkins had so carefully cultivated, corroded under the weight of franchise management.
This was the era — roughly 2005 to 2013 — when EA earned its reputation as the industry's villain. The company acquired promising independent studios (BioWare, Pandemic, Maxis) and, in the view of many industry observers and fans, gradually hollowed them out, subordinating creative ambition to franchise optimization and release schedules. Pandemic was shut down in 2009, just two years after acquisition. Maxis, the studio that created The Sims and SimCity, was effectively dissolved in 2015 after the disastrous launch of an always-online SimCity reboot. BioWare, the studio behind Mass Effect and Dragon Age, endured a rocky period of troubled launches and creative leadership departures. The pattern was consistent enough to constitute a strategy, or at least a pathology: buy the talent, extract the IP, grind down the studio culture that produced the IP in the first place.
The EA Spouse and the Cost of the Machine
On November 10, 2004, a LiveJournal post titled "EA: The Human Story" went viral. Written by Erin Hoffman under the pseudonym "EA Spouse," it described her husband's working conditions at an EA development studio in granular, devastating detail. Mandatory 9 AM to 10 PM shifts, seven days a week. No overtime pay. No comp time. No end in sight. "The game industry has become the sports industry's ugly step-sister," Hoffman wrote. "Crunching" — the euphemism for extended mandatory overtime in the weeks and months before a game's release deadline — was not an aberration at EA. It was the operating system.
The post triggered a reckoning. Two class-action lawsuits were filed against EA for failure to pay overtime, eventually settling for a combined $30.5 million. The International Game Developers Association's 2004 survey found that only 2.4% of respondents worked in no-crunch environments, and 46.8% received no compensation for overtime. The industry's labor practices were, by any reasonable standard, exploitative — and EA, as the largest and most visible publisher, became the lightning rod.
What the EA Spouse controversy revealed was the structural tension at the heart of the annual franchise model. Games had to ship on schedule — the NFL season wouldn't wait for your physics engine — and when development fell behind, the deficit was paid in human hours. The company that had been founded on the principle of treating developers as artists had become, in the eyes of its own workforce, a factory that consumed creative labor and produced annualized product. The irony was bitter enough to taste.
The settlements forced EA to reclassify certain employees to become eligible for overtime pay — but in exchange, those employees gave up their stock options. It was a telling trade, one that laid bare the power dynamics of an industry where passionate workers could be exploited precisely because they loved what they did.
Ultimate Team: The Accidental Goldmine
In 2009, an EA studio in South Korea developed a mode for FIFA 09 called "Ultimate Team." The premise was simple: players would collect digital cards representing real-world footballers, assemble them into squads, and compete against other players online. New cards could be earned through gameplay or — and this was the pivot point — purchased with real money through randomized "packs." You didn't know what you'd get. You might pull a Lionel Messi. You almost certainly wouldn't.
The mode was, in everything but name, a slot machine built into a football game.
Ultimate Team was not the first instance of microtransactions in gaming — that distinction belongs to various Asian free-to-play titles from the mid-2000s — but it was the first time a Western console publisher embedded a recurring randomized-purchase mechanic into a premium-priced game that was already generating $60 per unit at retail. The results were staggering. By fiscal year 2021, EA's "Ultimate Team" modes across FIFA, Madden, and NHL were generating an estimated $1.6 billion annually in net revenue — roughly a quarter of the company's total revenue, at margins that made the base game sales look like a loss leader.
The economics were almost impossibly attractive. The marginal cost of a digital card is zero. The content — player likenesses, statistics — was already licensed through the league agreements EA was paying for anyway. The cards depreciated in value with each annual release (when a new FIFA launched, the old Ultimate Team cards became worthless), creating an annual reset that forced the most engaged players to start spending again from scratch. It was a perpetual monetization engine attached to a perpetual content engine, and it transformed EA's financial profile from that of a cyclical hit-driven entertainment company into something more closely resembling a recurring-revenue software business.
The games industry discovered that the real business isn't selling a game. It's selling ongoing engagement inside a game. Ultimate Team was the proof point that changed everything for the traditional publishers.
The backlash was proportional to the success. Parents complained that their children were spending hundreds — in some cases thousands — of dollars on card packs. European regulators began investigating whether loot boxes constituted gambling. Belgium banned them outright in 2018. The UK Parliament held hearings. The FTC received formal complaints. EA's executives were hauled before a parliamentary committee in the UK, where one EA VP infamously described loot boxes as "surprise mechanics" — a phrase that became an instant meme and a permanent marker of corporate tone-deafness.
The loot-box controversy forced a reckoning that continues to shape the company. EA has gradually shifted Ultimate Team away from randomized packs toward more transparent purchasing mechanisms — a process accelerated by regulatory pressure and the loss of the FIFA license in 2023 (after which the game was rebranded as EA Sports FC). But the revenue engine persists. Live services — the category that includes Ultimate Team, in-game purchases, and subscription revenue — now represents approximately 75% of EA's total revenue. The company that started as an artist-first publisher has become, above all, a live-service operator.
The Wilson Era: Corporate Resurrection as Management Science
Andrew Wilson became CEO of Electronic Arts in September 2013, and the company he inherited was, by any honest accounting, a mess. His predecessor, John Riccitiello, had resigned six months earlier after a string of disappointing financial results — the failed SimCity reboot, the underwhelming launch of Star Wars: The Old Republic MMO, a stock price that had declined roughly 60% from its 2007 highs. EA had just been voted the "Worst Company in America" for the second consecutive year. Morale was catastrophic.
Wilson's background was unusual for a gaming CEO. Australian, raised in the working-class suburbs of Melbourne, he had joined EA in 2000 as an entry-level producer on the company's FIFA franchise. He understood the sports business from the inside — the rhythm of annual releases, the global licensing relationships, the operational logistics of shipping a game simultaneously in dozens of countries. What he brought to the CEO role was not creative vision in the Hawkins mold but something the company desperately needed: operational clarity. Wilson understood that EA's problem was not a lack of good games or talented developers. The problem was that the organization's internal architecture — its planning cadence, its resource allocation, its metrics — was built for a business model that no longer existed. EA was still organized around the annual boxed-game cycle, a model in which success was measured by first-week unit sales. But the actual revenue was increasingly coming from what happened after the sale — the live services, the downloadable content, the microtransactions, the subscriptions.
Wilson's first move was deceptively simple. He eliminated the internal metric that tracked "units shipped" — the number of games sent to retailers — and replaced it with "player engagement" — how many people were actually playing EA's games, and for how long. This sounds like management-consulting boilerplate. It was not. It was a fundamental reorientation of incentives across an organization of over 8,000 people. When the metric is units shipped, you optimize for launch-week marketing spend and retail shelf placement. When the metric is player engagement, you optimize for game quality, server stability, content cadence, and long-term player satisfaction. The entire decision tree shifts.
The results were dramatic. EA's stock price, which had traded around $20 when Wilson took over, climbed to over $90 by 2017. Revenue from digital channels — a category that barely existed a decade earlier — grew to dominate the company's financials. Digital sales rose 20.4% year-over-year in Q3 FY2017, reaching $685 million in a single quarter. By 2015, Fortune was writing about EA as "a veritable zombie come back to life," a "$22 billion behemoth" whose stock had tripled in two years.
Wilson also demonstrated a willingness to eat short-term pain for long-term positioning. He eliminated the "Online Pass" — a fee EA had charged buyers of used games to access online features — a policy that had generated significant revenue but earned enormous consumer ill will. He introduced a money-back guarantee for PC games. He invested heavily in EA Access (later rebranded EA Play), a subscription service that gave players access to a library of EA titles for a monthly fee — a Netflix-for-games model that sacrificed per-unit revenue for recurring engagement.
The FIFA Divorce and the Test of the Franchise
On May 10, 2022, EA announced that it would end its nearly thirty-year partnership with FIFA, the international governing body of football. The FIFA license — which had given EA the exclusive right to use the "FIFA" name, the World Cup branding, and certain associated assets — reportedly cost EA $150 million per year. FIFA wanted $250 million. EA walked.
The decision was a bet of extraordinary magnitude. FIFA was not just EA's best-selling franchise — it was, in many global markets, synonymous with football gaming itself. The brand had accrued decades of consumer awareness. To rename it EA Sports FC was to test, in the most public and high-stakes way imaginable, a hypothesis that the company had long privately held: that the value of its football game resided not in the FIFA name but in the game itself — the engine, the player data, the Ultimate Team ecosystem, the hundreds of individual club and league licenses that EA had painstakingly assembled over decades.
The hypothesis proved correct. EA Sports FC 24, the first non-FIFA-branded title, sold robustly. The Ultimate Team revenue stream — which depended on individual player licenses, not the FIFA brand — was unaffected. EA had, in effect, demonstrated that its real moat was not the three-letter acronym on the box but the accumulated infrastructure underneath it: the network of licensing agreements with over 300 clubs and 30+ leagues, the fidelity of its gameplay engine, the social network of millions of Ultimate Team players who had no substitute product to migrate to.
The episode was revelatory. It showed that EA had, perhaps without fully intending to, built something closer to a platform than a product. The FIFA license was an expensive decoration on a structure that could stand without it.
Apex Legends and the Art of the Ambush
On February 4, 2019, EA and Respawn Entertainment — the studio EA had acquired in 2017, founded by the team that originally created Call of Duty — released Apex Legends with no prior announcement. No months-long marketing campaign. No E3 reveal trailer. No pre-orders. Just: here's a free-to-play battle royale game, it's available right now, go play it.
Within 72 hours, Apex Legends had 10 million players. Within a month, 50 million. The game was a critical and commercial sensation, a proof-of-concept for a model EA had never seriously attempted: free-to-play, cosmetic-only monetization (no pay-to-win mechanics), and live-service content updates on a seasonal cadence. It was also, not coincidentally, the best thing to happen to EA's reputation in a decade. Here was a game that was genuinely excellent, genuinely consumer-friendly, and genuinely profitable — the combination that the gaming public had long believed was impossible for EA to produce.
Apex Legends was the product of Respawn's creative culture, not EA's corporate apparatus. The studio's co-founders, Vince Zampella and Jason West, had built a team that prized gameplay feel — the tactile experience of movement, aiming, and combat — above all other design considerations. Zampella, who tragically passed away in 2025 at the age of 55, had been one of the most formative designers in the history of first-person shooters, having co-created the original Call of Duty at Infinity Ward before departing Activision in an acrimonious legal battle. The fact that EA gave Respawn sufficient creative autonomy to produce Apex Legends — and sufficient operational freedom to execute the surprise launch — suggested that Wilson had learned from the studio-acquisition mistakes of the previous decade. Or at least some of them.
The Go-Private Endgame
The $55 billion buyout announced in September 2025 was, in one sense, the culmination of everything Andrew Wilson had built. The consortium — PIF, Silver Lake, Affinity Partners — was paying approximately 17 times EA's trailing twelve-month EBITDA, a rich but defensible multiple for a business generating $7.56 billion in annual revenue with roughly 75% of that revenue coming from recurring live-service streams. The thesis, as best as can be reconstructed from the deal structure, was that EA's franchise portfolio — EA Sports FC, Madden, Apex Legends, The Sims, Battlefield, Star Wars titles — represented a collection of durable engagement platforms whose monetization potential was constrained by the public market's short-term orientation and the regulatory scrutiny that accompanied public-company disclosures around loot-box revenue.
The deal also reflected a broader thesis about the games industry itself. Interactive entertainment had, by 2025, surpassed film and music combined in global revenue. The largest gaming companies were generating margins that rivaled enterprise software. And the transition to live-service models — where revenue is recognized not at the point of sale but continuously throughout a game's lifespan — had transformed the financial profile of the best gaming companies from cyclical hit-driven businesses into something resembling subscription platforms with network effects. EA, with its portfolio of established franchises and its proven live-service infrastructure, was arguably the single best asset in the industry for a private-equity consortium willing to accept lower near-term cash flow in exchange for long-duration compounding.
The consortium's composition was itself telling. PIF — the vehicle through which Saudi Arabia invests its sovereign wealth — had been aggressively building a portfolio of gaming and entertainment assets as part of Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman's Vision 2030 diversification strategy. Silver Lake, which had a track record of technology buyouts (Dell, Skype, Airbnb), brought the operational playbook for taking public technology companies private and optimizing them for cash flow. And Affinity Partners, Kushner's firm, brought the geopolitical connectivity that made the PIF relationship possible. The deal was, in miniature, a map of how power, capital, and entertainment intersect in the mid-2020s.
At the effective time of the Merger, each issued and outstanding share of Common Stock will be converted into the right to receive the Merger Consideration.
What Remains
There is a photograph from 1983 — widely reproduced in the gaming press — of EA's first developer group: a lineup of young programmers and designers posed like a rock band, arms crossed, staring at the camera with the specific defiance of people who believe they are inventing something. The packaging said "software artists." The marketing said "Can a computer make you cry?" Trip Hawkins' original EA manifesto — published as a full-page ad in The Wall Street Journal — argued that interactive entertainment was a new art form deserving of the same cultural respect as cinema and literature.
Forty-two years later, the art form generates more revenue than movies and music combined. The company Hawkins built employs roughly 12,500 people across studios on five continents. Its franchises are played by hundreds of millions of people. Its financial statements show a business that has successfully navigated the transition from boxed retail to digital download to live service — a transition that destroyed many of its contemporaries. And the price the market has placed on all of this — $55 billion, the largest leveraged buyout in history — is itself a kind of answer to the question Hawkins posed in that 1983 ad.
The computer can make you cry. It can also make you very, very rich. The question EA faces next — the one it has faced, in different forms, at every inflection point in its history — is whether the machine that generates the wealth can also sustain the art. The photograph from 1983 sits in an archive somewhere. The software artists are gone. The company endures.
