The Los Angeles Convention Center in June was a monument to controlled chaos.
Marcus had attended E3 before—in his previous life, as a consumer watching streams and devouring coverage from the comfort of his apartment, living vicariously through shaky cam footage and breathless Twitter updates. He had watched the press conferences, analyzed the trailers, participated in the endless speculation that made gaming's biggest week feel like a holiday for enthusiasts.
But he had never experienced it from the inside.
The Lucasfilm booth occupied a prime location in the West Hall, a sprawling installation that had been designed to evoke the grimy aesthetics of Coruscant's underworld. Neon signs flickered with Aurebesh script. Fog machines pumped atmospheric haze across the floor. Massive screens displayed concept art from the Old Republic era, interspersed with the LucasArts logo and the tagline that had become their rallying cry: "THE LEGENDS RETURN."
And everywhere—absolutely everywhere—there were people.
Marcus had underestimated the hunger. He had known, intellectually, that Star Wars fans were desperate for quality gaming content after years of cancellations and disappointments. He had seen the social media reactions to the VGA announcement, had read the forum threads dissecting every frame of the concept art sizzle reel. But standing here, surrounded by thousands of fans who had lined up before dawn for a chance to see what LucasArts was building, the reality of that hunger hit him like a physical force.
They wanted this. They needed this. And he was going to give it to them.
"Mr. Lucas?" Sarah Mitchell appeared at his elbow, headset in place, tablet clutched in hands that were only slightly trembling. "We're ten minutes out from the presentation. The theater is at capacity—we had to turn away about two thousand people. They're setting up overflow screens in the main hall."
"Overflow screens," Marcus repeated. "For a game that doesn't have a release date yet."
"For a game that people thought was dead." Sarah's voice carried a note of wonder. "Mr. Lucas, I've been in this industry for fifteen years. I've never seen anything like this. People are crying in line. Actual tears. They're so happy that 1313 is coming back."
Marcus felt the weight of that responsibility settle onto his shoulders. These weren't just consumers waiting for a product. They were fans who had grieved when 1313 was cancelled, who had watched their hopes die when Disney shut down LucasArts, who had spent years wondering what might have been.
He was about to show them what might still be.
"Is the footage ready?"
"Loaded and tested. Elena's team did a final pass last night—cleaned up some of the worst clipping issues, added placeholder music from the original trilogy to give it more impact. It's still rough, but..." Sarah hesitated. "It's rough in a way that feels honest. Like we're showing them the real work, not a polished marketing lie."
"That's exactly what we're doing." Marcus adjusted his flannel shirt—he had considered wearing something more formal for the presentation, but had ultimately decided that authenticity was more important than polish. "Let's go."
The walk to the presentation theater took them through the heart of the convention, past booths for other publishers showing other games, past crowds of cosplayers and journalists and industry professionals. Marcus noticed heads turning as he passed, whispers spreading through the crowd like ripples on a pond.
George Lucas was at E3.
George Lucas was personally presenting a video game.
George Lucas actually gave a damn about gaming.
The theater was packed beyond capacity, with people standing along the walls and sitting in the aisles despite the fire marshal's certain objections. The noise level was overwhelming—thousands of conversations overlapping into a wall of sound that made Marcus's ears ring. But when he stepped onto the stage, when his face appeared on the massive screen behind him, the room fell silent with a speed that was almost eerie.
"Thank you for being here," Marcus said, his voice—George's voice—amplified through the theater's sound system. "I know many of you have been waiting a long time for this moment. So have I."
He paused, looking out at the sea of faces. Young and old. All genders, all backgrounds, united by their love for a galaxy far, far away.
"Three years ago, Star Wars 1313 was announced at this very event. The response was incredible—fans were excited to see Star Wars tackle a mature, grounded story in a part of the galaxy we'd never explored. And then..." He let the silence stretch. "And then it was cancelled. Along with LucasArts itself. Along with so many dreams and projects and possibilities."
A murmur went through the crowd. Marcus could see pain in some faces, anger in others, the residual grief of fans who had lost something they loved.
"I'm here to tell you that those dreams aren't dead. They were just... delayed."
He gestured, and the screen behind him came to life.
The footage was rough. Marcus had insisted on honesty, on showing the game in its actual state rather than a polished vertical slice that might never represent the final product. The character models clipped through geometry. The animations were stiff in places, fluid in others. The placeholder music—recycled from the original trilogy—didn't quite match the tone of the visuals.
But the vision was there.
Level 1313 sprawled across the screen in all its grimy, neon-lit glory. The protagonist moved through environments that felt lived-in and dangerous, taking cover behind cargo containers, exchanging fire with enemies who emerged from shadowed doorways. The grappling hook mechanic—the one the team had been so proud of—sent the character swinging across chasms with a fluidity that drew audible gasps from the audience.
And then the sequence that Marcus had specifically requested be included: a quiet moment. The protagonist standing on a balcony overlooking the endless vertical sprawl of the underworld, speeders buzzing past in the distance, rain falling in sheets that caught the light of a thousand neon signs. No combat. No action. Just atmosphere and world-building and the sense of a universe that existed beyond the edges of the frame.
The footage ended. The LucasArts logo appeared. And the theater erupted.
The applause was deafening. People were on their feet, cheering, some of them actually crying as Sarah had described. Marcus stood at the center of the stage, letting the sound wash over him, feeling the connection between creator and audience that was the reason any of this mattered.
"This is early footage," he said when the noise had subsided enough for him to be heard. "What you just saw represents months of hard work by an incredibly talented team, but we're not close to done. We're not going to rush this. We're not going to ship something half-finished because the quarterly numbers demand it. We're going to take the time to make Star Wars 1313 the game it deserves to be."
Another wave of applause, and Marcus raised a hand to quiet it.
"But 1313 isn't the only thing we're working on. Many of you saw the Old Republic teaser at the VGAs last year. I'm pleased to announce that Knights of the Old Republic III is now in full production, with a target release date of 2015."
The sound that emerged from the crowd was not applause. It was something more primal—a collective expression of joy and disbelief that seemed to shake the very walls of the theater. Marcus saw people hugging strangers, saw tears streaming down faces, saw the kind of raw emotional response that reminded him why he had accepted this impossible second chance.
"More details will be coming throughout the year," he continued when he could be heard again. "But I want you to know that we're doing this right. The original creative team is involved. The story will conclude Revan's journey in a way that honors everything that came before. And we're building it for the fans who've kept the Old Republic alive for over a decade."
He paused, looking out at the crowd one final time.
"Thank you for believing in us. Thank you for never giving up on Star Wars gaming. We won't let you down."
The presentation ended. The lights came up. And Marcus walked off stage into a storm of activity—journalists shouting questions, PR handlers trying to manage the chaos, Sarah Mitchell looking like she might collapse from the combined stress and exhilaration.
"That was incredible," she breathed. "The social media response is already insane. We're trending worldwide. Every gaming site is leading with coverage of the presentation."
"Good." Marcus accepted a bottle of water from someone—he wasn't sure who—and took a long drink. "But we're not done yet. I have other meetings today."
Sarah's expression shifted to confusion. "Other meetings? The presentation was the main event. We've got interviews scheduled, but—"
"Cancel them. Have the PR team handle whatever's necessary." Marcus was already moving toward the exit, his mind racing ahead to the next item on his agenda. "I need to be somewhere else this afternoon."
"Where?"
Marcus smiled—a smile that probably looked strange on George Lucas's face, carrying as it did the manic energy of Marcus Chen's long-term strategic planning.
"I'm going to buy a gaming journalism company."
The IGN headquarters were located in a nondescript office building in San Francisco, the kind of space that gave no indication of the cultural influence wielded by the people inside. Marcus had arranged the meeting through a series of carefully worded communications, approaching it not as a hostile acquisition but as a partnership opportunity.
He knew what IGN would become. He knew about the controversies, the accusations of bias, the gradual erosion of credibility that would plague gaming journalism throughout the 2010s. He remembered the Cuphead incident—the infamous video of a games journalist who couldn't complete the tutorial level, which had become a rallying cry for gamers who felt that the people covering their hobby didn't actually understand it.
He remembered Gamergate, and the toxic mess that had consumed the gaming community, and the way that legitimate concerns about journalistic ethics had been weaponized by bad actors while genuine problems went unaddressed.
He wasn't going to let that future happen. Or at least, he was going to try to prevent it.
The meeting was with IGN's parent company executives—a collection of suits who looked slightly bewildered by the presence of George Lucas in their conference room. They had been expecting a conversation about advertising partnerships, about promotional content for the LucasArts revival. They had not been expecting an acquisition offer.
"Let me be direct," Marcus said, settling into his chair with the casual authority that came with being one of the richest men in entertainment. "I believe gaming journalism is at a crossroads. The industry is growing faster than the infrastructure that covers it. There's a credibility gap between the people who play games and the people who write about them—a gap that's going to get wider if someone doesn't address it."
"Mr. Lucas, with respect, IGN is a successful property." The lead executive—a man named James whose last name Marcus had already forgotten—shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We're one of the largest gaming media outlets in the world. Our traffic numbers—"
"Are impressive. I've seen them." Marcus leaned forward. "But traffic isn't the same as trust. And trust is what's going to matter in the next decade. As gaming becomes more mainstream, as the stakes get higher, audiences are going to demand coverage they can believe in. They're going to want journalists who actually play games, who understand the medium, who can speak to them as fellow enthusiasts rather than distant observers."
"Are you suggesting our journalists don't play games?"
"I'm suggesting that the pressure of the current business model—the reliance on advertising from the companies you're supposed to be objectively covering—creates conflicts of interest that undermine credibility. I'm suggesting that the rush to be first, to generate clicks, to produce content at volume, sometimes comes at the expense of quality and accuracy. And I'm suggesting that these are systemic problems that require systemic solutions."
The executives exchanged glances. Marcus could see them recalculating, trying to figure out where this conversation was going.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
"I want to acquire IGN. Not to gut it, not to turn it into a marketing arm of Lucasfilm—that would defeat the purpose. I want to invest in it. Hire more staff. Pay journalists well enough that they're not desperate for freelance work that creates conflicts of interest. Implement editorial standards that prioritize accuracy over speed. And most importantly—" Marcus paused for emphasis, "—I want to build a culture where the people covering games are genuinely passionate about and skilled at playing them."
"That's... an unusual priority."
"It shouldn't be. Would you trust a film critic who had never watched a movie? A music reviewer who couldn't recognize a chord progression? Gaming journalism has a credibility problem, and part of that problem is the perception—sometimes accurate—that reviewers don't actually understand the games they're covering."
Marcus thought about the Cuphead tutorial video. About the countless instances of games journalists struggling with basic mechanics, of reviews that revealed fundamental misunderstandings of how games worked. It had become a meme, a joke, a way for gamers to dismiss criticism they didn't like. But underneath the mockery was a legitimate concern: how could you trust someone's opinion on a game if they couldn't actually play it?
"I want IGN to be different," he continued. "I want it to be a place where gaming expertise is valued, where journalists are expected to be genuinely skilled at the medium they cover. Not professional esports players, necessarily—but competent. Engaged. Capable of evaluating games from a position of genuine understanding."
"And you think acquiring us is the way to achieve that?"
"I think acquiring you gives me the resources to try. New ownership, new investment, new editorial direction. We keep the brand, keep the audience, but we rebuild the infrastructure to support better journalism."
The executives were quiet for a long moment, processing the implications of what was being offered.
"This would be a significant acquisition," James said finally. "Our parent company would need to be convinced that the offer is competitive."
"It will be. I'm not looking to steal IGN on the cheap—I'm looking to invest in its future. The gaming industry is going to be bigger than film within the decade. The companies that establish credibility now will be the ones that dominate the landscape when that happens."
"You seem very confident about gaming's future."
Marcus smiled, thinking about all the things he knew were coming—the streaming platforms, the esports leagues, the cultural dominance of gaming that would make the medium impossible for mainstream culture to ignore.
"Let's just say I have good instincts about these things."
The flight to Stockholm was long enough for Marcus to catch a few hours of sleep, review his notes on Mojang and its founder, and experience a minor existential crisis about the sheer audacity of what he was attempting.
Buying IGN was one thing—a strategic acquisition that made sense within the context of his larger plans. But approaching Markus "Notch" Persson about Mojang and Minecraft was something else entirely. It was an attempt to prevent a future that hadn't happened yet, to save a creator from a sale that he might not even be considering at this point in time.
In Marcus's original timeline, Notch had sold Mojang to Microsoft in 2014 for 2.5 billion dollars. The sale had made him fantastically wealthy but had also, by his own admission, left him deeply unhappy. He had spoken publicly about depression, about the isolation that came with sudden extreme wealth, about his regret that Minecraft had stopped feeling like his.
Marcus wanted to offer him an alternative. A partnership that would give him resources and support without requiring him to give up control. A path that might lead to a different outcome—for Notch, for Minecraft, for the gaming industry as a whole.
Whether Notch would be interested was another question entirely.
The Mojang offices were located in a converted industrial building in Stockholm's Södermalm district, the kind of creative space that tech companies loved—exposed brick, open floor plans, employees in casual clothes working on laptops scattered across couches and standing desks. The atmosphere was relaxed, almost deliberately anti-corporate, a reflection of the indie sensibility that had made Minecraft a phenomenon.
Notch met him in a small conference room that looked like it had been hastily tidied for the occasion. He was younger than Marcus had expected—early thirties, wearing a fedora and a graphic t-shirt, with a beard that was somehow both impressive and slightly unkempt. His eyes were sharp, assessing, the eyes of someone who had built something extraordinary and was waiting to see what this visitor wanted from him.
"Mr. Lucas," Notch said, shaking his hand with a grip that was surprisingly firm. "I have to admit, when I got the meeting request, I thought it was a joke. Why would George Lucas want to talk to me?"
"Because you've built something remarkable." Marcus settled into a chair, trying to project the calm authority of George Lucas while suppressing the fanboy energy of Marcus Chen. "Minecraft isn't just a game—it's a platform. A creative tool. A community. You've created something that people use to express themselves, to tell stories, to connect with each other. That's rare."
"It's also made me very rich." Notch's voice was dry, self-deprecating. "Which tends to attract people who want a piece of it."
"I'm not here to take anything from you. I'm here to offer you something."
"Which is?"
"A partnership. An alternative to the path I think you might be considering."
Notch's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "What path would that be?"
"The big tech companies are circling, aren't they? Microsoft, Amazon, maybe Google. They see Minecraft's success and they want it for themselves. They're making offers—maybe not formal ones yet, but conversations. Expressions of interest. The subtle implication that selling would make your life easier."
Silence stretched between them. Notch's eyes were unreadable.
"How do you know that?"
"I've been in this industry for forty years. I've seen how the big players operate." Marcus chose his words carefully—he couldn't admit to knowing the future, but he could present his knowledge as experienced observation. "The pattern is always the same. An indie creator builds something special. The corporations notice. They approach with offers that seem generous, that promise freedom and resources and the chance to focus on what you love. And then, after the sale..." He let the sentence hang.
"After the sale, what?"
"After the sale, it's not yours anymore. Maybe they let you keep working on it for a while, but eventually they have their own priorities, their own vision, their own metrics for success. The thing you built becomes a product in their portfolio, managed according to their strategies. And you end up wealthy but disconnected from the thing that made you who you are."
Notch was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer.
"You're describing my nightmare."
"I know. That's why I'm here." Marcus leaned forward. "I'm not offering to buy Mojang. I'm offering to partner with it. Investment, resources, distribution infrastructure—everything you need to grow without giving up control. Lucasfilm can provide the business side so you can focus on the creative side. And you stay in charge. You make the decisions. Minecraft remains yours."
"What do you get out of it?"
"A stake in one of the most innovative gaming companies in the world. Access to your technology and your expertise. And—" Marcus hesitated, then decided to be honest, "—the satisfaction of helping a creator avoid a mistake I've seen too many others make."
Notch studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"Why do you care? You're George Lucas. You have Star Wars. Why are you suddenly interested in gaming, in journalism, in a weird Swedish block game?"
"Because I woke up." Marcus smiled, and for once the expression felt completely natural on George Lucas's face. "I spent years treating gaming as secondary to film, as a licensing opportunity rather than a creative medium. I was wrong. Gaming is the future—maybe the present, honestly—and the people who are building it deserve support, not exploitation."
"That's a nice speech."
"It's also true." Marcus stood, moving to the window and looking out at the Stockholm skyline. "Notch—Markus—I'm not going to pressure you. This isn't an ultimatum. I'm presenting an option, an alternative to selling to a megacorporation that will inevitably prioritize profits over creativity. You can take it or leave it. But I wanted you to know that the option exists."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I wish you well and hope you find a path that makes you happy. This isn't about acquisition for me—it's about building something. A gaming ecosystem that supports creators rather than consuming them. You'd be a valuable part of that, but you're not the whole of it."
Notch was quiet again, staring at Marcus with an intensity that felt almost uncomfortable.
"You're not what I expected," he said finally. "George Lucas. Hollywood royalty. I expected... I don't know. Condescension, maybe. The kind of executive who doesn't actually understand what makes games special."
"I understand." Marcus turned back to face him. "Maybe better than you'd think."
"Okay." Notch stood, extending his hand. "I'm not making any decisions today. I need to think about this, talk to my team, run numbers, all the boring stuff. But I'm not saying no. I'm saying 'let's keep talking.'"
Marcus shook his hand. "That's all I ask."
"And Mr. Lucas?" Notch's expression shifted, a hint of the playful humor that had characterized Minecraft's development. "If this partnership happens, you have to play Minecraft. Properly. Build something with your own hands."
Marcus grinned. "I've been building things since before you were born, Markus. Don't underestimate me."
"I wouldn't dare."
The flight back to California gave Marcus time to process everything that had happened in the past seventy-two hours.
E3 had been a triumph. The 1313 footage was everywhere—gaming sites, mainstream news, social media platforms flooded with reaction videos and analysis threads. The announcement of KOTOR III had broken records for social media engagement, generating more discussion than any game announcement in recent memory. The LucasArts brand, which had been synonymous with cancellation and disappointment for years, was now associated with hope and possibility.
The IGN acquisition was progressing. The parent company's executives had been receptive to his offer, recognizing the strategic value of having George Lucas invest in their gaming media infrastructure. Negotiations would take months, but Marcus was confident they would reach an agreement. And when they did, he would begin the slow, careful work of rebuilding gaming journalism from the inside out.
The Mojang conversation was still in its early stages, but the door was open. Notch was interested, intrigued by the possibility of an alternative to the corporate acquisition that loomed in his future. Whether it would ultimately lead to a partnership remained to be seen, but Marcus had planted the seed.
And underneath all of it, the larger projects continued to develop.
The Old Republic television series was in pre-production, with Keanu Reeves preparing for the role of Revan and a writers' room being assembled to develop the season structure. The Thrawn film adaptation was progressing through script development, with Timothy Zahn consulting on every major decision. Natalie Portman was training intensively for Mara Jade, transforming herself into the deadly assassin that the role demanded.
LucasArts was coming back to life. The development teams were expanding, hiring talented people who had been displaced by industry contractions and layoffs. The prototypes for 1313 and Galactic Assault were evolving into actual games, rough edges being polished, systems being refined, visions being realized.
Marcus stared out the airplane window at the clouds below, thinking about the future he was building.
In his original timeline, 2012 had been the beginning of the end for Star Wars gaming. The Disney sale had been announced, LucasArts had been shuttered, and years of unrealized potential had been locked away forever. Gamers had mourned what might have been while the franchise they loved was handed to corporate custodians who didn't understand what made it special.
But this wasn't his original timeline anymore.
In this timeline, George Lucas hadn't sold. LucasArts hadn't been shuttered. The games that should have been made were being made. The stories that deserved to be told were being told.
And Marcus Chen—the dead IT worker from 2023, the Star Wars superfan who had been granted an impossible second chance—was at the center of it all. Wearing George Lucas's face, wielding George Lucas's power, building George Lucas's legacy in ways the original man had never imagined.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was the most meaningful thing that had ever happened to him.
The plane began its descent into Los Angeles, and Marcus watched the city lights appear below—millions of lives, millions of stories, a world that didn't know how different its future was going to be.
He had work to do.
So much work.
But for the first time in his life—both lives, really—Marcus felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
The future was waiting, and he was going to shape it with his own hands.