“exchange-student jeans”—obviously expensive but slightly the wrong color and of a somehow non-American cut. Beneath a tight, fashionably out-of-style black nylon jacket was a T-shirt that read TECHNOLOGY! His sunglasses were of the oversized, county-sheriff variety, and each of his earlobes held a small, bright diamond earring. He could have been either a boyish Dolce & Gabbana model or a small-town weed dealer.
Bleszinski suggested that we go to a local diner. He professed an aversion to mornings, and to Monday mornings especially, but seemed dauntingly alert. “This car’s like a wake-up call,” he said. “By the time I get to work, my heart’s pumping and I’m ready to crank.” Before we were even out of the parking lot, we were traveling at forty-five miles an hour. At a stoplight, Bleszinski exchanged waves with the driver of an adjacent red Ferrari—another Epic employee. When we hit a hundred miles per hour ona highway entrance ramp, Bleszinski announced, “Never got one ticket!” On the highway, he slowed to seventy-five. “One of my jobs in life,” Bleszinski said, cutting over to an exit, “is to make this look a little cooler.” By “this,” he meant his job. He is adamant that young people interested in gaming should seek to make it their career. After five minutes in Bleszinki’s company I was beginning to wonder why I had not attempted to make it
my
career.
Bleszinski’s brand of mild outrageousness—the “Cliffycam” on his blog page, which, some years ago, allowed visitors to observe him online while he worked; the photographs of him on his MySpace page alongside the splatter-film director Eli Roth and the porn stars Jenna Jameson and Ron Jeremy—qualifies him as exceptional in an industry that is, as he says, widely assumed to be a preserve inhabited by pale, withdrawn, molelike creatures.
There is some emotional truth to this stereotype. “This industry,” Bleszinski told me, “is traditionally filled with incredibly intelligent, talented people who don’t necessarily like a lot of attention.” In illustration he brought up Bungie’s Jason Jones, the primary creative force behind the
Halo
series. “Really, really great guy. But he’s shy. He’s almost like this Cormac McCarthy–type character. One interview every ten years.” When he was young, Bleszinski said, “I wanted to know
who
these people were creating these games. And I was like, ‘You know what? If I do a great job making games, maybe people will find it interesting.’”
The CliffyB nickname, he told me, was bestowed on him by some “jock kid,” when he was a small, shy teenager, and was meant as a taunt. Bleszinski took the name and fashioned a tougher persona around it, but, after spending a little time with him, I had the sensation of watching someone observing himself. Video games are founded upon such complicated transference. Gamers are allowed, for a time, all manner of ontological assumptions. They can also terminate their assumed personalities wheneverthey wish, and Bleszinski had lately been asking game-industry journalists if they might not “sit on” the CliffyB moniker “for a while.”
Bleszinski was born in Boston, in 1975. His father, whom Bleszinski describes as a “very stressed-out guy,” died when he was fifteen. Bleszinski still remembered what game he was playing when he learned of his father’s death: the Nintendo game
Blaster Master
. He never played it again.
In 1991 Bleszinski’s mother bought him a computer. “I’m not that technical of a guy,” Bleszinski told me. “I started off programming my own games and doing the art for them, but I was a crappy coder and a crappier artist. But I didn’t want to let that stop me. I was going to kick and scream and claw my way into the business any way possible.” He thinks that it was perhaps only the death of his father that allowed him to do this. “If he hadn’t passed, he probably would have made me go to
Bleszinski suggested that we go to a local diner. He professed an aversion to mornings, and to Monday mornings especially, but seemed dauntingly alert. “This car’s like a wake-up call,” he said. “By the time I get to work, my heart’s pumping and I’m ready to crank.” Before we were even out of the parking lot, we were traveling at forty-five miles an hour. At a stoplight, Bleszinski exchanged waves with the driver of an adjacent red Ferrari—another Epic employee. When we hit a hundred miles per hour ona highway entrance ramp, Bleszinski announced, “Never got one ticket!” On the highway, he slowed to seventy-five. “One of my jobs in life,” Bleszinski said, cutting over to an exit, “is to make this look a little cooler.” By “this,” he meant his job. He is adamant that young people interested in gaming should seek to make it their career. After five minutes in Bleszinki’s company I was beginning to wonder why I had not attempted to make it
my
career.
Bleszinski’s brand of mild outrageousness—the “Cliffycam” on his blog page, which, some years ago, allowed visitors to observe him online while he worked; the photographs of him on his MySpace page alongside the splatter-film director Eli Roth and the porn stars Jenna Jameson and Ron Jeremy—qualifies him as exceptional in an industry that is, as he says, widely assumed to be a preserve inhabited by pale, withdrawn, molelike creatures.
There is some emotional truth to this stereotype. “This industry,” Bleszinski told me, “is traditionally filled with incredibly intelligent, talented people who don’t necessarily like a lot of attention.” In illustration he brought up Bungie’s Jason Jones, the primary creative force behind the
Halo
series. “Really, really great guy. But he’s shy. He’s almost like this Cormac McCarthy–type character. One interview every ten years.” When he was young, Bleszinski said, “I wanted to know
who
these people were creating these games. And I was like, ‘You know what? If I do a great job making games, maybe people will find it interesting.’”
The CliffyB nickname, he told me, was bestowed on him by some “jock kid,” when he was a small, shy teenager, and was meant as a taunt. Bleszinski took the name and fashioned a tougher persona around it, but, after spending a little time with him, I had the sensation of watching someone observing himself. Video games are founded upon such complicated transference. Gamers are allowed, for a time, all manner of ontological assumptions. They can also terminate their assumed personalities wheneverthey wish, and Bleszinski had lately been asking game-industry journalists if they might not “sit on” the CliffyB moniker “for a while.”
Bleszinski was born in Boston, in 1975. His father, whom Bleszinski describes as a “very stressed-out guy,” died when he was fifteen. Bleszinski still remembered what game he was playing when he learned of his father’s death: the Nintendo game
Blaster Master
. He never played it again.
In 1991 Bleszinski’s mother bought him a computer. “I’m not that technical of a guy,” Bleszinski told me. “I started off programming my own games and doing the art for them, but I was a crappy coder and a crappier artist. But I didn’t want to let that stop me. I was going to kick and scream and claw my way into the business any way possible.” He thinks that it was perhaps only the death of his father that allowed him to do this. “If he hadn’t passed, he probably would have made me go to
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