Play Nice: The Rise, Fall, and Future of Blizzard Entertainment

by Jason Schreier

To many observers, it may have seemed like a nice if toothless promise from a shiny new corporate suit. But to those who knew what had really been going on at Blizzard over the last decade, the subtext of Spencer’s words was thicker than a tauren on leg day.

“I used to joke: Our game is totally different from Dune II,” said Pat Wyatt. “You see, their minimap is in the lower right corner, and ours is in the upper left.”

Brevik and his team had decided that their next move would be to make a sequel—a bigger, faster, more improved version of Diablo—but they were drained. So instead they spent their days pitching, daydreaming, and playing video games, or, as they liked to call it, competitive research.

During one of these excursions, the dancers talked a group of Blizzard staff into moving to the back room for some private activities. They were then shocked to receive a bill for thousands of dollars—per person—which led to some marital strife when they returned home.

“My kids called themselves WoW orphans,” said Twain Martin. “You wanted to see Dad, you came to work.”

“We were living the good life with EverQuest,” he said. “I’d say we got arrogant. We thought, ‘Oh my god this ride’s going to go on forever.’” Then he played the World of Warcraft beta. “It was like: ‘Ruh roh.’”

In truth, he came out of the womb ready to generate revenue for shareholders. Growing up in Roslyn, New York, Kotick all but learned how free markets functioned before he could walk.

Much later, the United States Centers for Disease Control and Prevention would contact Blizzard for their data on how people behaved during this in-game pandemic—after all, World of Warcraft was a more useful case study than any mathematical model.

The renowned video game company entered a tweenlike state of maturation as it aimed to become a proper company, with codified HR policies and more women joining every day.

Every time the game surpassed the population of a new country, World of Warcraft designer John Staats would send out a taunting email. “In your face, Estonia!” he recalled writing. “Suck it, Switzerland.”

Their expansions typically took about two years to make, so they hoped to double the size of the World of Warcraft team and divide it into two units, each alternating so they could stagger new expansions every year. But as the old saying goes, nine women can’t make a baby in a month.

Kotick stopped him in the middle of a discussion about yearly releases. “He said, ‘Dusty, I like this, but this is not aggressive enough,’” Welch recalled. “‘I want to get to a launch every quarter, and then I want to get to a Guitar Hero launch every month.’ My mouth must have dropped open.”

Better work-life balance kept employees happier and healthier—a win in the long run—but it meant that games took longer to make.

As the two of them began talking about what leaving Blizzard might look like, they decided to coin a code phrase for their secret mission. That way, if someone popped into a room and asked what they were talking about, they had an easy explanation. “The code word,” said Brode, “was ‘Dungeon Run monetization.’”

“I kind of feel like they gave me a parachute filled with money,” one colleague told Borger, “and kicked me out of a burning building.”