May 1, 1975 — a Thursday.
In most of the world, it's Labor Day. In the United States? Just another workday. Here, "Labor Day" comes on the first Monday of September. As for why? Ask Chicago.
That morning, Ethan arrived at Atari's Los Gatos factory. The place looked nothing like before—no clatter of tools, no busy production lines. Instead, neatly uniformed reception staff moved about with practiced efficiency.
A small wooden stage had been set up in the open space, facing nearly a hundred folding chairs arranged in tight rows. Crude, maybe, but practical—like a drive-in theater without the cars.
Ethan's seat was front and center, between Atari's founder, Nolan Bushnell, and investor Don Valentine, whom he'd met before. Both men greeted him warmly enough, but conversation quickly splintered—Valentine leaned in to whisper to an acquaintance, while Bushnell kept scanning the crowd, shaking hands and exchanging smiles.
Ethan, arms crossed, took in the scene. The invite list was a patchwork of America's mid-'70s nightlife economy—bowling alley owners in sharp suits and slicked-back hair, karaoke and dance hall operators in bell-bottoms, nightclub managers in loud shirts, most of them trailed by glamorous dates. The mix of styles and industries made for an oddly colorful crowd.
By the time the clock inched toward ten, the folding chairs were more than 80% filled. Bushnell gave the stage a once-over, clearly pleased, then snapped his fingers toward a lanky figure at the edge—Steve Jobs.
Jobs stepped up, cleared his throat, and tapped the mic. The chatter died to a buzz.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Jobs began, "welcome to Atari's new product launch, May 1975. I'm your host for the day—Steve Jobs."
He paused, smiling with a practiced, almost corporate poise. From the crowd came not just polite applause, but heckles—"Steve! Hurry up and show the product, I'm starving here!"
"Yeah, make it quick! I gotta open my shop this afternoon!"
"Yo, Steve! Why's this starting to feel like some big-company stunt? Two years ago, Nolan was driving a pickup around himself, selling us machines door-to-door—and delivering in three days! Now your service has gone straight into the Pacific Ocean!"
"Hahaha!"
"Yeah—backwards!"
Steve Jobs, unfazed, simply raised the microphone and smiled.
"Alright, alright~ I know everyone's busy. Some of you came straight here after closing your shop. Some of you have to leave early to open your shop. So I won't waste your time."
He gestured with a sweep of his arm, drawing every eye to the hulking shape beside him—a machine hidden under a red cloth.
"With that," Jobs continued, "let me introduce Atari's newest product."
He gripped the cloth, yanked hard——and the crowd was greeted by a dark green cabinet.
This was no rough, boxy prototype like Ethan's earlier version. Atari's refinements gave it flair: across the top, a painted green snake lunged from left to right, jaws wide and fangs bared, about to swallow a bright red apple whole. Beneath the graffiti-style art, yellow block letters screamed the title: Snake Game.
The room fell momentarily still, soaking in the look.
Jobs seized the moment. "By now, I think you can guess the theme—yes, it involves a snake." He leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to tease. "But you'll never guess the gameplay."
His right hand shot into the air, index finger stabbing upward.
"Because it's different from every arcade machine on the market!"
He began to pace. "Right now, every coin-op game has the same problem—our players' time isn't under our control. You all know what I mean. Whether it's Atari's Pong or anyone else's machine, the only way to maximize profit is to limit how long a quarter lasts."
A few heads nodded knowingly. "But even then… we get burned. Take Pong. Two masters drop a quarter in, and they can keep that rally going for half an hour or more. That's one machine tied up, making nothing."
Jobs stopped, grinning. "But now…" He let the words hang in the air. "That problem is gone. Snake Game fixes it. Because most customers won't last more than a couple minutes. Many will last only a few seconds. Some… just a few seconds."
He let the silence stretch. The crowd broke into a buzzing uproar.
"No way!"
"A few seconds for twenty-five cents? How?!"
"Show us!"
"Holy—if that's true, it's a gold mine!"
Even the earlier hecklers were leaning forward now, eyes fixed on the stage.
Jobs chuckled, bent over, and flipped the power switch. The machine burst to life with a blast of sharp, electronic music.
In plain view, he slid a quarter into the slot and then stepped back, doing absolutely nothing.
Under dozens of watchful eyes, the little green snake zipped across the screen—smack!—straight into the wall.
Eight seconds. Dead. A murmur rippled through the room. Before anyone could comment, Jobs had already fed another quarter into the slot. This time he took control, guiding the snake himself. Five seconds later—crash!—another game over.
The crowd's eyes widened. This was no accident.
On the third coin, Jobs steered the snake with precision, collecting ten white fruits over the course of thirty seconds. Then the game suddenly sped up, the snake lunged forward—wham!—into the boundary again.
The merchants' breathing quickened. They could already smell the money.
Jobs straightened, mic in hand. "I think you've all figured it out," he said. "The rules are simple: you control a snake that never stops moving. Eat the dots for points. But the snake can't hit the walls or its own body. Each fruit makes it longer, space tighter, mistakes deadlier. And every ten fruits, the speed jumps. That's when most players panic."
He paced the stage, voice rising. "In testing, the longest anyone has survived in the first stage is forty-five seconds. In stage two, thirty seconds. Stage three, fifteen seconds. And stage four…" He chuckled. "Let's just say I can't beat it either. That means the absolute maximum time a single quarter lasts is ninety seconds."
He let the numbers drop like coins into a till. "Ninety seconds per play. Forty plays per hour. Theoretical maximum? Two hundred and forty dollars per day—per machine."
The merchants stared at the cabinet as if it were jackpot. Some grinned. Some frowned. All were calculating.
"That's more than printing money," one muttered.
But then, a voice cut through the buzz."I don't buy it!"
All eyes turned to a man in a sweat-stained cap. "Pong was a nationwide hit—everybody's heard of it. And even at its peak, the best we ever made off one machine was fifty, maybe sixty bucks a day. Now you're telling me Snake Game can pull two-forty? Sorry, Mr. Jobs… those numbers sound like a fairy tale."
The murmur in the crowd turned into nods. Yeah—those numbers were too good to be true.
"Sure, short games mean faster turnover," someone called out, "but what about customers? They play twice, get bored, and walk away. Is it even fun enough to keep them feeding coins?"
Jobs just smiled. "Sir, why don't you come up and try for yourself?"
The challenger, a broad-shouldered man in a sweat-stained shirt, didn't hesitate. "Gladly," he said, striding to the stage. "I've seen your little demo, but I can't imagine something this simple holding my attention."
He dropped a coin, gripped the joystick, and began. Five seconds later—smack!—Game Over. Another coin. Ten seconds. Game Over. Third try. Seven seconds. Game Over.
The white words on the black screen might as well have been laughing in his face.
"MFxxk!" he barked, throwing up his hands. For a moment it looked like he'd smash the cabinet, but instead he stomped his foot.
"How much?"
"One thousand two hundred," Jobs replied smoothly.
"I've got two stores. Bring me two."
"Of course. Register over there."
The first buyer drew glances. The second one drew attention.
By the time the third and fourth men placed orders, the room was heating up.
The snake was irresistible—easy to pick up, impossible to master. The longer it slithered, the more it felt like a teasing beauty, luring you forward. A sudden loss only convinced players they'd been careless, that next time they'd surely beat it. And with that thought—clink!—another coin vanished into the abyss.
One by one, the challengers came. None lasted three rounds. All waved checks.
At first, Jobs calmly directed orders. But when logistics reported that nearly all stock was gone, the latecomers panicked.
"I want two! Right now!"
"Is there a Santai model left? I'll pay upfront!"
"I've got three billiard halls—give me six!"
"You cheapskates are too slow! Ten units for me, tonight!"
"Don't shove! Leave me one!"
The scene turned into chaos. In the middle of it all, Ethan sat back, watching from his quiet corner like a general surveying the battlefield. The smile on his face said it all—no one in the world could resist Snake.