The Machine That Was Too Full of Quarters
The call came a few days after installation. The prototype — a plywood cabinet covered in faux woodgrain, housing a twelve-inch black-and-white television set bought cheap from a local store, two control knobs, and a coin box — had stopped working at Andy Capp's Tavern in Sunnyvale, California. It was November 1972. Allan Alcorn, the engineer who'd built the thing as what he understood to be a training exercise, drove over expecting a busted circuit or a blown capacitor. What he found instead was a machine so gorged with quarters that the coin mechanism had jammed. The game couldn't accept any more money because it had already accepted too much.
This is the creation myth of the video game industry, and like all good creation myths it contains a paradox: the machine failed because it succeeded. The game was Pong — two paddles, one ball, a score displayed in blocky digits at the top of the screen — and its simplicity was not a concession to primitive technology but a deliberate design choice made by a twenty-nine-year-old entrepreneur named Nolan Bushnell who understood, with the intuition of someone who had spent years watching humans feed coins into mechanical amusements, that the distance between watching someone play a game and wanting to play it yourself must be crossable in seconds. "All the best games are easy to learn and difficult to master," Bushnell would later codify as his first law. "They should reward the first quarter and the hundredth."
The jammed coin box at Andy Capp's was more than a sign. It was the overture to an industry that would, within a decade, generate more revenue than all of Hollywood combined — and then nearly destroy itself in a catastrophe Bushnell would watch, helplessly, from the outside, having already sold the company he'd built for $28 million and been pushed out by the men who bought it. The story of Nolan Bushnell is not, despite what the commemorative plaques suggest, a simple tale of invention. It is a story about the space between seeing the future and owning it, about the serial entrepreneur's peculiar affliction — what Bushnell himself calls "five-year A.D.D." — and about a man who has founded more than twenty companies, made and squandered several fortunes, missed out on a third of Apple Computer for $50,000, and at age fifty-six found himself sitting on a plastic patio chair with a $6.79 price tag still on the table, renting a house in Los Angeles, telling a reporter, "We're homeless."
By the Numbers
The Bushnell Orbit
$500Initial capital to found Atari in 1972
$28MSale price to Warner Communications in 1976
$2BAtari annual revenue by 1982
20+Companies founded over five decades
8Children with wife Nancy
$50,000Price to buy one-third of Apple — declined
15 yearsDuration of Merrill Lynch legal battle
Rockets on Roller Skates
Clearfield, Utah, 1943. The town sits about thirty miles north of Salt Lake City, a place where the Wasatch Range shoulders up against the Great Salt Lake and the air smells of alkali flats and sagebrush. Nolan Kay Bushnell was born there on February 5 into a Mormon family, and his childhood reads like a curriculum vitae for a specific kind of American original: the tinkerer who cannot stop tinkering, the boy who sees every system as a machine waiting to be taken apart.
At age eight, his mother told him she'd grown too many strawberries. He loaded them into a wagon and sold them door to door. At eleven, he started a television repair business — not because anyone asked him to, but because he realized that his older customers' willingness to underestimate a child's technical competence was itself a kind of market inefficiency. He undercharged for labor. He overcharged for parts. The margins were excellent. His early setbacks were proportional to his ambitions: he nearly burned down the family garage with a homemade liquid-fuel rocket mounted on a roller skate.
When his father died, Nolan was fifteen. He took over the family concrete business. Not as a tribute, not as a caretaker — as an operator. The entrepreneurial impulse was not something Bushnell developed; it was something he simply was, the way some people are left-handed.
He enrolled at Utah State University to study engineering, then transferred to the University of Utah, where he cycled through majors — engineering, business, mathematics, back to engineering — with the restless promiscuity of a man who found every discipline interesting and no single one sufficient. He joined a fraternity. He sold advertising for university calendars. He sold encyclopedias. And then, crucially, he took a job managing the games department at Lagoon Amusement Park, a modest operation north of Salt Lake City where animated driving machines and pinball tables clattered through the summer months.
The University of Utah in the mid-1960s was, improbably, one of the most important computer science departments in the world. Run by Ivan Sutherland and David Evans — whose students would go on to found Netscape, Adobe, and Pixar — it was one of the first four nodes on ARPANET, the precursor to the internet. It had a PDP-1. And on that PDP-1, like on virtually every PDP-1 in the country, someone had loaded Spacewar!, the 1962 game created by Steve Russell at MIT in which two spaceships orbited a central star and tried to destroy each other.
Bushnell played it. The exact circumstances — whether he saw it during the day or snuck into the computer lab at night, whether a fraternity brother introduced him or he stumbled upon it — have been debated by historians for decades, with some researchers arguing that Bushnell's own account of playing Spacewar! at Utah has been embellished over fifty years of retelling. What is not debated is the synthesis that occurred in his mind. He was, as he later put it, "probably the only electrical engineer that understood television, and understood the coin-operated game business in 1969." Two bodies of knowledge — the physics of cathode-ray tubes and the economics of quarters — collided in a single skull. The question formed: could you put a computer game in an arcade?
He did the math. A million-dollar computer. Quarters. "You divide 25 cents into a million dollars and you give up."
He gave up. For the moment.
The Epiphany of Hardware
After graduating in 1968 — "last in his class," he often bragged, which may or may not have been literally true but was certainly true in spirit — Bushnell moved to California's Santa Clara Valley. The orchards were still there. "For the next ten years you never had to buy firewood," he'd recall. "You could just go by a place where they were tearing out a prune orchard and there'd be a sign saying 'free wood.'" The term "Silicon Valley" hadn't been coined yet. The local industry ran on defense contracts, building machines to calculate missile trajectories.
Bushnell took a job at Ampex Corporation, which made recording equipment. There he met Ted Dabney — a quiet, competent technician who would become his co-founder and, much later, his most complicated historical counterpart. Dabney, born in 1937 in San Francisco, had served in the Marines and worked as an electronics technician at various firms; he was methodical where Bushnell was mercurial, practical where Bushnell was visionary. For decades, the only voice telling the story of Atari's founding was Nolan's. Dabney didn't speak publicly about it until 2009, when historian Leonard Herman tracked him to the mountains of California, where he was running a grocery store. The story he told was different in significant ways from Bushnell's — about who did what, who contributed what, who deserved what credit. Memory, as the historians note, is a funny thing. The more we relay a certain set of facts, the more real they become in our own minds.
What is clear is that together, Bushnell and Dabney spent evenings and weekends trying to figure out how to bring Spacewar! to the masses. They considered the Data General Nova, a $4,000 minicomputer released in 1969. Too expensive. Too slow. Clock speeds in those days ran at 200 kilohertz — not even a megahertz, let alone a gigahertz. And then Bushnell had what he called "a great epiphany": what if you didn't use a computer at all? What if you designed dedicated circuits to perform each of the tasks a program would have done? No general-purpose processor. Just hardware, purpose-built for one game.
The insight was not merely technical. It was economic. A dedicated circuit board was orders of magnitude cheaper than a general-purpose computer. The trade-off was that the game had to be simpler — no sun's gravity, no hyperspace button, no second player-controlled ship. Just one spaceship fighting two hardware-generated saucers. But the economics worked.
They called the game Computer Space. They called their company Syzygy — an astronomical term meaning the alignment of three celestial bodies — because it sounded appropriately cosmic, though the name was already taken by a candle company, a roofing company, and a Mendocino hippie commune. The game was manufactured by Nutting Associates, a coin-operated amusement company. Computer Space arrived in arcades in November 1971 in a fiberglass cabinet with curves that looked like something out of a 1960s science fiction film.
It was too complicated. "I like to say that all my friends loved it," Bushnell later admitted, "but all my friends were engineers."
Twenty-Five Cents into a Revolution
The failure of Computer Space taught Bushnell something more valuable than success would have. Complexity was the enemy. A game in an arcade had to be comprehensible to a slightly drunk person who was watching someone else play it from six feet away. It had to invite trial. It had to be obvious.
In 1972, Bushnell and Dabney formally incorporated a new company. Unable to use "Syzygy," they chose a word from Go, the ancient Japanese strategy game that Bushnell had been playing at a Stanford University club: Atari. In Go, "atari" is the equivalent of "check" in chess — a warning that your opponent's stones are about to be captured. It means, roughly, "you are about to be engulfed."
Their first employee was Allan Alcorn, a burly, affable engineer from the University of California, Berkeley, who had worked at Ampex alongside Bushnell and Dabney. Alcorn knew television technology — he'd studied video systems — but had never designed a game. Bushnell gave him what he described as a training exercise: build a simple table tennis game. Two paddles. One ball. According to legend, Bushnell told Alcorn that Atari had a contract with General Electric for such a game. There was no contract. The training exercise was the product.
The game Alcorn built exceeded expectations. Working with analog circuitry — there were no microprocessors available yet — he added features Bushnell hadn't requested: a segmented paddle that changed the ball's angle depending on where it hit, a satisfying electronic "pong" sound, increasing ball speed as rallies lengthened. The prototype went into the plywood cabinet and then into Andy Capp's Tavern, where Bushnell already had contacts in the local bar-game distribution circuit.
Good players knew that the hardest shot was the one you hit off the tip of the paddle — that gave you the maximum angle. But, of course, hitting it off the tip made it easy to miss the ball.
The jammed coin box was all the market research Bushnell needed. But manufacturing Pong was another matter. Atari had no factory, no supply chain, no capital. They set up production in an old roller skating rink, hiring local workers — some of whom, by various accounts, were not entirely sober or entirely free of controlled substances during their shifts. By 1972, the company had sold more than 8,000 Pong arcade machines. Quarters cascaded in.
There was, inevitably, a lawsuit. Ralph Baer — a German-born American engineer at defense contractor Sanders Associates — had designed a television-based game system called the Magnavox Odyssey, which included a table tennis game and had been demonstrated publicly before Pong's release. In 1974, Magnavox sued Atari for patent infringement. Magnavox won in 1977, but by then Atari had already settled, licensing the patent for $700,000 — a trivial sum relative to the fortune Pong was generating. The question of who "invented" the video game — Baer, Russell, Higinbotham, Bushnell — would never be cleanly resolved. Bushnell's genius was not necessarily in the invention itself but in the synthesis: seeing the intersection of technology and entertainment economics that no one else could see, and moving on it.
The Culture Before the Culture
What Bushnell built at Atari was not just a company but a template — the first draft of what Silicon Valley culture would become. Before Apple, before Google, before the mythologized garages and campus cafeterias and foosball tables, there was Atari: a company where engineers wore jeans, drank beer at their desks, smoked marijuana in the parking lot, and were judged on what they shipped, not on what school they'd attended or what they wore.
Bushnell codified this in what he called the Atari Manifesto, a document remarkable for its era. Under the heading "PEOPLE," it declared: "Judge all people on the basis of their skills and contribution and not tolerate discrimination on the basis of race, color, creed, national origin, sex, appearance or personal life. At Atari, discrimination of the whites against blacks or blacks against whites; of short hairs against long hairs or the long hairs against the short hairs; the trained against the untrained; the experienced against the unexperienced will not be tolerated." The manifesto was signed by Bushnell himself, and its language — earnest, a little clumsy, unmistakably sincere — reads like a founding document for the meritocratic ethos that would later become Silicon Valley orthodoxy.
"I've always valued passionate employees over anything else," Bushnell said decades later. "It turns out that there's a huge percentage of the population that are actually dead — they don't know it, but, in terms of their processes, they're just waiting to be buried."
The hiring philosophy was anti-credentialist to the point of deliberate provocation. Bushnell looked at hobbies, not grades. He hired people from restaurants, from conferences, from chance encounters after speeches. "The minute the H.R. department says 'college degree required,'" he argued, "you're going to eliminate an awful lot of extremely talented people." Harold Lee, the engineer who designed the chip for the home version of Pong, was a bearded bear of a man with long, scraggly hair who rode a Harley. One of the prime architects of the Atari 2600 was a college dropout, entirely self-taught. "I find they're often better than their college-educated counterparts," Bushnell said of such hires. "They're learning because of passion. Because they love it."
Bushnell held board meetings in his hot tub. He purchased a mansion formerly owned by coffee magnate James Folger. The company's no-violence rule — "you could blow up a tank, you could blow up a plane, but we didn't want violence against a human being" — gave Atari's games a distinctive character that appealed to demographics broader than the young male default. The culture was exhilarating, chaotic, and, in the long run, unsustainable. But for a brief window in the 1970s, it worked with an intensity that would be mythologized for half a century.
The Kid on the Night Shift
In 1974, a nineteen-year-old college dropout walked into Atari's offices in Silicon Valley and demanded a job. He wore sandals. He was scruffy. He didn't smell well. Allan Alcorn was looking for engineers, and though this kid wasn't a full-fledged engineer, Bushnell recalled, "he seemed like he had all the right stuff."
Jobs worked at Atari for about a year, left to travel to India, came back, and worked there again. He was, by all accounts, difficult — intense, abrasive, possessed of a hygiene regimen that alienated his coworkers. Bushnell's solution was characteristically unorthodox: he created a night shift. Atari didn't have a night shift. Bushnell invented one, specifically, to manage a talented employee whom nobody else could stand to be around during the day.
"He was very intense," Bushnell recalled. "One of the things that was remarkably different about Steve is he was very interested in things other than the technology we were working on. We used to engage in relatively deep conversations about philosophy. He enjoyed introspection.
Determinism versus free will. Rationalism, that sort of thing."
I never, ever, saw the evil Steve Jobs. He was always the most well-mannered and respectful guy I knew. And we got to be pretty good friends. He didn't suffer fools gladly. I guess he didn't think I was a fool.
Bushnell tasked Jobs with designing Breakout — a single-player variant of Pong in which a ball bounces off a wall of bricks — with a challenge: use as few chips as possible. Jobs enlisted Steve Wozniak, then employed at Hewlett-Packard, to do the actual engineering. Wozniak worked nights while keeping his day job. Jobs, by multiple accounts, took the lion's share of the bonus and most of the credit. Breakout became one of the top five highest-grossing arcade games of 1976 and, perhaps more consequentially, served as the design inspiration for the Apple II computer.
The connection between Atari and Apple runs deeper than anecdote. Bushnell introduced Jobs to Don Valentine of Sequoia Capital, who in turn introduced Mike Markkula — the former Intel marketing manager who became Apple's first major investor and its operational backbone. "I'm not arrogant enough to believe that if I had made the investment, I would have been the CEO or president that Markkula was," Bushnell later reflected. "The whole outcome may have been different."
The investment he didn't make: in 1976, Jobs offered Bushnell one-third of Apple Computer for $50,000. Bushnell turned him down. "I didn't think Steve was a good chief executive," he explained decades later, laughing at the memory. One-third of Apple would today be worth more than $300 billion.
The $28 Million Exit and What It Purchased
By 1976, Atari was growing faster than Bushnell could finance. The home version of Pong — sold exclusively through Sears, Roebuck and Company — had moved 150,000 units, but Bushnell's ambition had outgrown a ping-pong game. He wanted to build a system that could play a range of games through interchangeable cartridges: the Video Computer System, later renamed the Atari 2600. The development costs were enormous. Venture capital, still a young industry, had funded some of Atari's growth — Sequoia Capital, InterWest Partners, the Mayfield Fund contributed a combined $30 to $40 million — but the 2600 required more.
Bushnell, the sole owner of the company, sold Atari to Warner Communications for $28 million. The year was 1976. Within five years, Atari would become the fastest-growing company in American history, with annual revenues exceeding $2 billion, a market share of 75 percent, and a cultural footprint that rivaled television itself.
But the marriage between Bushnell's freewheeling culture and Warner's corporate bureaucracy was catastrophic. Emanuel Gerard, the Warner vice president who'd championed the acquisition, was dismayed by what he found: "They really had no manufacturing, no sales, and no advertising or marketing expertise. Everything but research was lacking. It was amateur night in Dixie." Bushnell, for his part, chafed at button-down oversight of a creative operation. The warring factions produced a power struggle that Bushnell lost. In 1979, he was pushed out of the company he'd founded.
He would later identify his worst business decision at Atari as one that saved all of two cents per unit: making the 2600's game cartridges read-only rather than read-write. Had the cartridges been upgradable, system obsolescence would have come more slowly. The entire trajectory of the company — and the industry — might have been different. Two cents.
A Rat, a Pizza, and Walt Disney's Ghost
Bushnell's next venture revealed something essential about his mind: he did not think in industries. He thought in experiences. What connected video games to his next creation was not technology but the same instinct that had led him from Lagoon Amusement Park to Pong — the conviction that entertainment was a place, not just a product.
He had long admired Walt Disney. Not the animated films — the theme parks. The integration of food, spectacle, and interactive experience into a single environment. Bushnell wanted to build something like that, at a scale ordinary families could afford on a Tuesday night.
The origin story of Chuck E. Cheese is, like many Bushnell stories, tinged with comic accident. He wanted an animal mascot. He saw what he thought was a coyote costume and bought it. When it arrived, it was a rat. He considered "Coyote's Pizza," then "Rick Rat's Pizza" — already copyrighted, and also, as focus groups presumably confirmed, you do not want rats associated with the kitchen. He settled on "Chuck E. Cheese" — alliterative, like Mickey Mouse, and a name that, as he noted, forced people to smile when they said it.
Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theatre opened its first location on May 17, 1977, in San Jose. It combined pizza, animatronic characters, and arcade games — many of them supplied by Atari — into an environment that was less restaurant than carnival. It was, in essence, an amusement park compressed to the footprint of a strip mall. It exploded. Bushnell was, for a second time, building the future of American leisure.
Then, in 1984, Pizza Time Theatre filed for bankruptcy. The same oversaturation that was destroying the video game market — too many consoles, too many bad cartridges, too many competitors — was eroding the arcade economy that sustained Chuck E. Cheese. The brand would eventually be resurrected by ShowBiz Pizza Time, Inc., and endure for decades as a staple of American childhood. But Bushnell was already gone, already moving.
The Incubator and the Navigator
What Bushnell did next is the part of his biography that deserves far more attention than it receives. In 1981, he created Catalyst Technologies — a venture-capital partnership designed, as he put it, to "turn the future into companies." It was, by many accounts, the first high-tech incubator in Silicon Valley.
"I read science fiction, and I wanted to live there," Bushnell explained.
In the era of the TRS-80 and CB radio, Catalyst funded an array of startups pursuing concepts that would become entire industries decades later: interactive television, online ordering, digital navigation, personal robotics. The most successful of these was Etak, born in 1983 when Bushnell and Stan Honey — a scientist at SRI International — were sailing in the Transpac yacht race and got to talking about non-nautical applications for satellite navigation. Etak became the first commercially available car navigation system, its mapping technology laying the foundation for what eventually became the digital cartography underlying Google Maps. Rupert Murdoch's News Corp. bought the company for approximately $30 million in 1989.
ByVideo was another Catalyst creation — an online ordering system that allowed customers to order and pay for products from kiosks. "I wish I'd kept working on ByVideo," Bushnell said decades later, "because it could have been Amazon."
Androbot, a personal robotics company, was the painful failure. "Using a 386 motherboard was a really dumb idea," Bushnell conceded with a chuckle. "I still believe home robots will play an important role in the future, but we were far too early." The tension between vision and timing — between seeing where the world is going and arriving there before the world is ready to follow — is the defining rhythm of Bushnell's career.
Fifteen Years in the Wilderness
The Merrill Lynch story is the dark valley in Bushnell's biography, the period that separates the myth from the man.
In 1983, an IPO went bad. The details of the resulting litigation — a crushing fifteen-year legal battle with the investment house Merrill Lynch — Bushnell has declined to discuss publicly, but its consequences were devastating. The battle consumed his assets, his homes, many of his friendships, and very nearly his marriage.
In September 1999, a reporter named Michael Learmonth visited Nolan and Nancy Bushnell at a rented house in Los Angeles. The scene he described was almost novelistic in its specificity: small plastic patio chairs beside a black-bottomed lap pool, a green plastic table with a $6.79 price tag still on it, Italian Renaissance chairs from the Woodside house standing incongruously in the living room next to a treadmill and unpacked boxes. Nancy Bushnell — whom Nolan had first seen tending bar at Khartoum, a Campbell fern bar her family owned, in 1976 — apologized for the mess. "We're really still moving in. It's been terribly disruptive on the teenagers. To live in the same house their whole lives and then be pulled out of school for five months. We've spent many nights comforting them while crying."
At one point during the litigation, Merrill Lynch went after Nancy's family restaurant and her son's bank account. Her attorney wrote to opposing counsel: "Stop hammering this woman into the ground."
The Bushnells' Woodside home — the mansion near where Steve Jobs had lived, where Jobs would walk up the hill and they'd "bullshit about stuff" — was sold for $5 million, forty-eight hours before foreclosure.
"When I was 35, I was insufferable," Bushnell told the BBC years later. "I thought I could do no wrong and I got really sloppy."
I have made so many massive mistakes of ego, I can't tell you.
The legal settlement was finalized in 1999. For the first time since 1968, when he'd arrived in Silicon Valley as a young man from Salt Lake City, Bushnell did not own a home. He was fifty-six years old. He had eight children. He had co-founded an industry, built a cultural institution, invented the technology incubator, and pioneered digital navigation. And he was starting over on rented plastic furniture.
"But there have been some really good things that have come out of this," Nolan said, sitting by the pool that day. "I think our kids are a lot more squared away than they might have been. They've seen life from both sides now."
The Constant Beginner
The most revealing thing about Nolan Bushnell is not what he built but that he never stopped building. Not after the sale of Atari. Not after the bankruptcy of Chuck E. Cheese. Not after fifteen years of litigation. Not in his sixties, seventies, or eighties.
After the Merrill Lynch settlement, he launched uWink — a restaurant concept with touchscreen ordering, a kind of adult Chuck E. Cheese — which had a rocky commercial life but anticipated the tablet-based ordering systems now standard in casual dining. He founded Brainrush, an educational software company using game mechanics to accelerate learning — "not teaching, but learning. How do kids learn? How does the brain work?" — which was operating out of a crumbling Los Angeles office above a row of shops in 2015, staffed by young men banging on keyboards on a Saturday afternoon. He created Anti-Aging Games, a website designed to improve short-term memory in older adults through games that change every three to six months — "always keeping on the steep part of the learning curve." He built Modal VR, a large-scale wireless virtual reality platform. He launched X2 Games, a publisher focused on blockchain technology. He released St. Noire, a murder mystery board game for Amazon's Alexa that won "Best of Innovation" at CES 2019.
None of these ventures approached the cultural impact of Atari or Chuck E. Cheese. That is, in a sense, the point. Bushnell's serial entrepreneurship is not a strategy but a compulsion — the expression of a mind that finds the steep part of the learning curve more intoxicating than the plateau of mastery.
"Being on the steep part of the learning curve, I think, is as fun as the world gets," he said. "I'm still on the steep part of the learning curve today. Maybe someday I'll figure out what I want to be when I grow up, but I might just be a constant beginner. It turns out that if you're a constant beginner, it's the very best thing you can do for your brain. Being uncomfortable and trying to figure things out is when neurogenesis happens."
In
Finding the Next Steve Jobs, published by Simon & Schuster in 2013, Bushnell compiled his philosophy of hiring and nurturing creative talent — drawing heavily on his memories of the young Jobs, but ultimately building an argument about why companies systematically exclude the very people who could save them. The book opens with Bushnell recalling a day in 1980 when he and Jobs wandered through Paris discussing creativity. "Without creativity your company will not succeed," he writes. "That concept may not sound surprising, but what is surprising is how few companies realize it, or actually do anything about it."
Asked by an interviewer to name three dinner companions, living or dead, Bushnell chose Walt Disney, Alan Turing, and Blaise Pascal. Asked for his motto: "Invent, invent, invent!" Asked for the theme song of his professional life: "My Way."
The Pizza Toppings He Couldn't Remember
In 2012, Nolan Bushnell stopped by the offices of Anti-Aging Games to demonstrate one of his products for a New Yorker reporter. He was sixty-eight, tall, jovial, bearded, dressed in jeans and black sneakers and a battered safari jacket, smelling of pipe tobacco. He clicked on a game called Pizza Factory.
The rules: memorize three pizza toppings — oregano, sausage, artichoke hearts — then keep a pizza in the air by clicking on blue dots (the distraction), then select the correct toppings from a list of twenty.
The reporter kept interrupting with questions about the future of gaming. Bushnell, clicking away at the blue dots, predicted augmented reality: "You'll design a game where there are eight evil monkeys over in the Bank of America building, but you can see them only through your iPhone. And these games won't be that difficult to make. We're only at the beginning of this."
Finally, it was time to select the toppings.
"Was it cilantro? No. Basil, right? Wow. I really need help with this. Normally, I can get up to seven or eight toppings, but, well, I guess I'm distracted right now."
The man who invented the video game industry — the man who'd understood, at twenty-nine, that a game must be easy to learn and difficult to master, that risk and reward are the fundamental mechanics of all human play, that the distance between a quarter in your pocket and a quarter in the machine is a design problem with a design solution — could not remember three pizza toppings. He sat there in his battered safari jacket, white-bearded, smelling of pipe smoke, a serial entrepreneur with five-year A.D.D. who had built and lost and rebuilt and lost again and was still building, still playing, still feeding quarters into the next machine, still distracted by the next blue dot on the screen.
