Carmack fell silent.
His brain was rapidly deducing the operational logic of this model.
Takuya Nakayama struck while the iron was hot, throwing out a concrete business framework.
"Large companies are fully capable of bearing this expense. To avoid scaring off small and medium-sized development teams and independent creators, I suggest establishing a tiered payment threshold." Takuya Nakayama wrote a series of numbers on the whiteboard. "Using this engine for learning, testing, and even developing commercial games will be completely free of licensing fees in the beginning. No matter how long you tinker with it in your garage, the Foundation won't take a single cent. Only when the game is officially released and its total revenue exceeds a certain amount will the Foundation begin to collect copyright fees for this project."
Yuji Naka added an explanation. "We can set a relatively generous threshold. Before you make money, the engine is free. After you make big money, you contribute a portion of the profits to feed back into the community. This revenue-sharing model is much more reasonable than a one-time buyout of a commercial engine license for hundreds of thousands of dollars."
"And this money won't go into the pockets of Sega or id Software." Takuya Nakayama pointed to the word "Foundation" on the whiteboard. "The funds flow into the foundation's account, to pay the salaries of core maintainers, rent server bandwidth, host global developer conferences, and directly reward community members who contribute high-quality code and assets. The more people who participate, the more problems the project solves, and the more prosperous the entire ecosystem becomes. No single giant can monopolize a collaboration network of this scale."
Jensen Huang stopped twirling his pen. "Game companies would be very willing to accept this proposal. Developing a next-gen 3D engine from scratch costs millions of dollars, and they have to bear the risk of project failure. By comparison, just paying a small percentage after a game becomes a hit is a bargain whichever way you look at it. They might even proactively send engineers to help maintain the underlying code, because that's cheaper than maintaining a massive engine team themselves. Plus, due to the flexible payment terms, it won't place financial pressure on game companies, especially for individual developers and small-to-medium-sized teams."
Carmack's gaze lingered on the whiteboard.
He understood.
This wasn't about undermining open source; it was about using commercial rules to establish a self-sustaining system for it.
The face of his old partner, John Romero, surfaced in his mind.
Over the past six months, the frequency of arguments within id Software had skyrocketed.
Carmack was obsessed with pushing the limits of underlying hardware, pursuing faster frame rates, more perfect BSP tree algorithms, and ray-casting techniques.
Romero, on the other hand, poured all his energy into level design, visceral visual presentation, and the player's intuitive experience.
Romero complained that Carmack's technological iterations were too rapid, forcing him to frequently scrap and redo the levels he had worked so hard on—every time the underlying code changed, the art assets had to be redone to match.
Carmack, meanwhile, couldn't stand Romero's casual attitude toward the code; those flashy designs dragged down the engine's operational efficiency.
The divide between the two regarding technical gameplay and commercial experience was growing wider.
Carmack had even privately prepared for the worst-case scenario: the ship that was id Software could no longer carry two captains steering in completely different directions.
Sooner or later, one of the two would have to leave the company.
But now, the open-source engine ecosystem described by Takuya Nakayama offered a brand-new solution.
If there were an engine framework that was sufficiently open, modular, and backed by a large community, Romero could fully take the lead on the content modules and level editors he excelled at.
He could sell his level templates in an asset store, pouring his talent into game design.
Carmack, meanwhile, could sit undisturbed as chairman of the Technical Committee, focusing entirely on the underlying rendering pipeline and network synchronization algorithms.
This was not just public infrastructure for the entire industry; it was a sanctuary where different types of geniuses could each do what they did best.
Technology would be technology; content would be content.
Interdependent, yet never interfering with each other.
The air in the conference room fell silent.
The vibration of the subwoofers outside traveled through the floor.
Everyone was waiting for Carmack to make a decision.
Carmack stood up.
He didn't look at Jensen Huang, nor did he look at Mark Cerny; instead, he walked straight to the whiteboard and took the marker from Takuya Nakayama's hand.
He drew a heavy line under "Technical Committee" and wrote his own name.
"I'll take the position of Chairman." Carmack turned around, his tone returning to that matter-of-fact crispness. "Let's first finalize the underlying math library and memory scheduling scheme. I'll start writing the draft of the core framework once I return to Texas next week. The rendering pipeline interface must have enough redundancy; we need to guard against future changes in hardware architecture."
Takuya Nakayama reached out his hand.
"Pleasure doing business with you. Sega's legal team will complete the foundation's registration and legal procedures in Delaware next month."
Jensen Huang let out a long breath, stood up from his chair, and straightened his suit jacket. "NVIDIA's hardware interface documentation will be sent to you tomorrow. As soon as your engine framework is set up, our graphics driver department will fully cooperate with the optimization."
"I want universality; NVIDIA's graphics cards can only serve as design references." Carmack stared at Jensen Huang.
"Of course, NVIDIA is happy to oblige." Jensen Huang spread his hands toward Carmack.
Mark Cerny and Yuji Naka exchanged glances, both breathing a sigh of relief.
A secret agreement that would change the underlying logic of the gaming industry for the next twenty years was finalized in this simple room.
There was no champagne, no camera flashes, just a few tech fanatics and one operator who deeply understood the rules of business.
Carmack tossed his marker onto the table. "Have you thought of a name?"
Takuya Nakayama wiped the charts off the whiteboard and wrote two letters in the center.
"UE."
Carmack tilted his chin up. "Full name?"
"Universal Engine." Takuya Nakayama threw the eraser into the pen holder. "It will belong to everyone."
The door to the simple conference room was pushed open.
The noisy din of the E3 exhibition hall flooded back into their ears.
The vibration of the subwoofers traveled through the floor to the soles of their feet.
Takuya Nakayama walked in the lead, with Carmack beside him, and Jensen Huang, Yuji Naka, and Mark Cerny following behind.
The sight of these five walking together quickly drew the attention of the crowd nearby.
A reporter from NetGeneration, who had been filming the setup of the id booth, turned around and saw these familiar faces emerging from the same small room. He hurriedly signaled his cameraman to follow.
An editor from Electronic Gaming Monthly nearby reacted even faster, taking two quick strides to block their path in the aisle.
"Executive Director Nakayama! Mr. Carmack!" The editor raised his digital recorder. "Excuse me, what was the secret meeting about just now? Is Sega planning to acquire id Software? Or is it true that Quake will be released as an exclusive for the Sega Jupiter?"
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