The door opened in the featureless beige room. In stepped Garrett Wyland and Fairly Unusual’s corporate counsel. Present was the Ponferrada delegation headed by Eduardo Catalan. Also present were two Taiwanese investors and their interpreter. Seated next to them was John Sanada, Fairly Unusual’s Asian liaison and an accomplished entrepreneur in his own right. Wyland closed the door and took his seat at the head of the table.

“So now we have the real meeting,” he said as his counsel began unloading file folders and stapled packets of information marked “CONFIDENTIAL” from his dollhouse-sized briefcase.

“I don’t like what I’m hearing, Garrett,” Eduardo began. “Now I realize some of this can be put down to rumor-mongering, but–”

“We will run out of cash in 18 days.”

The interpreter spoke quietly. As she finished, the faces of the two investors drained of their color. Catalan almost sputtered, but kept his cool while he set down his coffee cup.

“How can that be? You just announced a nine-figure crowdfund!”

“I can’t use that money for operations yet. You of all people should know there’s no such thing as free cash. All that campaign did for us is drop tens of millions of dollars of contributor obligations, accounting, paperwork and shipping costs into our laps, to say nothing of the taxes. The only money I can really use is what we clear from sales or investment, and my tech lead says we’re four years out from retail, so here we are.”

“You got a lot of publicity,” Sanada offered.

“True. We also attracted a large population of future fit-throwers if we don’t deliver by the numbers day and date.”

“How many accountants did you have planning this thing?”

“If the Internet had an official sport, John, it would be throwing five bucks at a crowdfund just to see if it fails. Then you get to film a series of tantrums to monetize on Videowall.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“But revenue-positive, which I can tell you without reservation is a rare state of affairs on these here Interwebs. Look at the newspaper business, John. If people can’t read about violence or divorce, they want to read about war.”

“Violence and divorce are war,” Sanada quipped.

“Exactly. A crowdfunding campaign is one of the fastest ways to get a war started on the Internet. An angry mob of five-dollar contributors with nothing better to do than cry all day about how life isn’t fair vs. a company and a burn-rate that would vaporize a regional bank’s balance sheet. It’s the kind of thing publishers live for. I’ll show you the subscriber numbers. They are literally better than sex.”

“So why are we talking about balance in the executive conference room when we should be talking about how to keep this ship from sinking in three weeks?” Catalan snapped.

“Marketing isn’t just an outside-the-office thing, Eduardo,” Garrett replied. “If my developers and artists get the idea we’re taking on water, we lose our talent pool. You know how much we spent to get these guys and gals. I’ve got an award-winning artist out there who turned down a seven-figure offer from Dragonpixel only a couple months ago. They have to be in it for the long haul, so I have to keep morale up.”

“You haven’t told anyone!?”

“Not without a steel-reinforced NDA. Fiduciary responsibility isn’t negotiable, Eduardo. Word gets out and the IPO tanks. That’s not going to look good on anyone’s balance sheet, now is it?”

The interpreter continued her quiet translating. The two well-dressed investors didn’t look comforted. Catalan poured a new cup of coffee from the silvered pot and mixed in some French vanilla flavored creamer. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Alright. We didn’t call this meeting to hear a list of problems. I need some reassurance you aren’t changing tactics mid-field.”

“We’re reading from the same playbook we started with.”

“Prove it to me, then.” Eduardo folded his arms.

“What you just said doesn’t line up with last month, Garrett,” Sanada replied. “Fairly Unusual’s public disclosures and actions look increasingly like a company desperate for attention.”

“We are desperate for attention. Everything we do here depends entirely on marketing.”

“You have state-of-the-industry technology. The number one game in the history of the business. A building full of talent and hundreds of millions of dollars in capital. And now at this late date you’re telling me none of that matters!?” Sanada exclaimed.

Wyland didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, it matters, as long as we have the marketing to go with it. You understand what I’m up against here, don’t you? I’m competing with four trillion dollars worth of optimized spreadsheet-precise advertising and enough analysts to make the invasion of Sicily look like a frat trip to the Food King. Our message has to be translated into fourteen languages and somehow get into the hearts and minds of people who are not only pathologically opposed to advertising, but willing to spend thousands of dollars on imaginary swords! I long for the days of detergent commercials and game shows, John. It was child’s play compared to what I’m trying to overcome here!”

“Sell them what you sold us, Garrett! You got a standing ovation at the first pitch meeting I attended. All you had back then were a handful of sketches and a line or two about the allure of exploration.”

“John, I could be selling immortality here! I still need ad placements! I need air time and column inches! I need morning shows and convention panels! Even when I get them, the Internet is filled with obstacles. Word of mouth isn’t what it used to be. Every message is treated with suspicion. Like political propaganda. And that means every message has an entrenched opposition movement. We’re not Fairly Unusual Games just trying to sell our next title. We’re secretive scammers trying to steal coins from naive orphans. According to the Internet, everything we do is just part of our long con until we deliver the game. Then we’re rock stars for a few weeks until the whispers start about how we’re spending all our money on recreational chemicals. Now most of that noise we don’t directly respond to, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have an impact.”

“So this whole thing is just about increasing the marketing budget?”

“Our last free shot comes on the red carpet at GamesWest. From there, we’ve got 90 yards to go, and we’re going to have to do it on the ground, yard by yard against the best run defense in the world.”

“What’s this going to cost us, Garrett?” Eduardo asked with a tone of finality.

“Three hundred million dollars.”

Catalan gaped. The two Taiwanese men reacted as if Garrett had just grown horns. “You have a flair for the dramatic. I’ll give you that much.”

Garrett smiled like a man whose marriage proposal had just been accepted. “My family complained bitterly when I chose Theater as a college major.”

“Probably thought you couldn’t find a job.”

“They didn’t know then what I know now. Raising billions in capital has nothing to do with spreadsheets or MBAs and everything to do with storytelling.”

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