Location: Volta S.A. R&D Laboratory (Ivry-sur-Seine)
Date: Winter 1987-1988
Point of view: Omniscient (Focus on Karim Belkacem and Lazare Bonaparte)
The winter of 1987 covered the Ivry factory with a coat of frost, but inside the R&D laboratory, the atmosphere was stifling. The material revolution had indeed taken place, but it threatened to collapse under its own weight.
On the benches of the laboratory, the development kits were piled up. At the heart of these machines was the SONG (Synthesized Output Nexus for Graphics) coprocessor, a 68 mm² silicon monster containing 145,000 transistors engraved in 1.5 μm CMOS by VLSI Technology. It was an absolute marvel: a 32-bit ARM RISC core clocked at 16 MHz dedicated exclusively to graphics orchestration.
But Karim Belkacem's phone kept ringing. On the other end of the line, the technical directors of the British and French video game studios, to whom Lazare had entrusted the future of entertainment, were on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
"Lazarus, we have a major problem," Karim said, sitting down heavily in front of the CEO's desk. "The flea is a miracle, but it is indomitable. The studios can't program it properly. »
Lazarus looked up from his diagrams, his impassive face contrasting with the panic of his technical director.
"Precise, Karim. The specifications of the architecture are clear, however. The SONG chip supports 64 hardware sprites with scale factors from 0.25× to 4× and rotations in 1° steps. Everything is engraved in the VRAM sprite table. What escapes them? »
"What they don't know is the complexity of our MMIO register!" Karim almost exploded as he threw a bundle of faxes at the desk. "Look at the bug reports! One studio spent three days trying to clear the depth memory to display their polygons. They say that the Z-buffer doesn't erase properly if the resolution exceeds 320x240. »
Lazarus looked at the document with a cold look.
"This is a known architectural flaw on this Revision A, errata G003. Simply clean the Z-buffer in two passes: the top half of the screen first, then the bottom half. »
"And that's not all," Karim continued, exasperated. "The blitter corrupts the last pixel of an image line if the width is an exact multiple of 32. And in Hi-Color mode, we have a visual artifact of one pixel on the right edge of the screen! »
"Errata G001 and G004," replied Lazarus with Olympian calmness. "For blitter, you need to add a padding pixel to the width. For the Hi-Color artifact, the visible width must be reduced to 319 pixels instead of 320. Simple workarounds. »
"Simple for you, Lazarus!" cried the technical director. "But you can't ask video game programmers to code patches in ARM assembly language to get around every little lithography error! They are given a nuclear reactor, but they are asked to adjust the valves by hand. They will give up and go back to programming on the Amiga. »
Lazarus leaned back in his leather chair. The sixty-year-old engineer, locked in his young adult body, knew that Karim was right. The history of computing was full of brilliant chips that had sunk into oblivion for lack of software tools to exploit them. The industry in 1987 was still accustomed to typing directly on metal, but the SONG coprocessor was too complex for this old method.
"You're right, Karim," Lazarus said as he stood up. "Equipment alone is not enough. The human mind should not worry about hexadecimal memory addresses when creating art. We have to forge language. »
Lazarus walked over to the room's whiteboard and grabbed a marker.
"We are going to stop being simple cross-country skiers. We are going to impose the software standard. Prepare your team. We will create the Volta OS Driver. »
He drew three large blocks superimposed on the painting.
"The first layer will be the HAL, for Hardware Abstraction Layer. This layer will exclusively manage access to the SONG MMIO registers and will handle hardware interruptions. It is here that we will integrate, invisibly, all the errata bypasses. Developers will never have to worry about padding the blitter or the two passes of the Z-buffer again. The code will do it for them. »
Lazarus tapped the central block with his marker.
"Above, the heart of the reactor: the GDI, Graphics Device Interface. The Graphics API. Studios will no longer code in assembler for the component. We will expose them to high-level functions, written in C. They will call DrawLine(), BitBlt(), or DrawTriangle(), and GDI will translate these calls into write sequences for the SONG. »
To illustrate his point, Lazarus erased part of the painting and wrote a loop of quick code.
"Let's take the example of a simple solid rectangle. To fill 5,000 pixels, instead of occupying their CPU, our API will send these four commands to the component's base 0x03F0_8000 address:"
He wrote in capital letters:
LARGE 0x03F0_8028, offset_VRAM ; BLT_DST LARGE 0x03F0_802C, taille_100x50 ; BLT_SIZE LARGE 0x03F0_8038, couleur_42 ; BLT_FG LARGE 0x03F0_8030, 0x01 ; BLT_CTRL = FILL
"The host processor executes these four instructions in just four clock cycles. Then it's over. The communication protocol is completely asynchronous. It's "fire and forget". The SONG takes over in the background, fills the rectangle at a speed of 32 MB/s, and signals the end of the operation with an interrupt, leaving the CPU free to calculate the artificial intelligence or physics of the game. »
Karim was looking at the painting, his eyes wide. The hardware abstraction layer, coupled with a standardized graphics API, wouldn't exist on PCs for years. Lazarus was inventing the direct ancestor of DirectX and OpenGL.
"What about the third layer?" asked Karim, pointing to the last block.
"The Window Manager. It will use the SONG blitter for all OS operations: moving, resizing, and scrolling our GUI. By the way, with the support of the hardware double buffer via the FB_BASE register, the driver will swap the display of the front buffer and the back buffer each time you synchronize. In a single register write, we will eliminate any tearing. »
The very next day, Ivry's R&D was transformed into a real software forge. Lazare and Karim worked tirelessly to deliver these graphic libraries.
But Lazarus did not stop at simple 2D functions. Aware that the SONG's hardware 3D was his greatest asset, he manually wrote the pre-programmed routines for the 3D rasterizer. He integrated Bresenham's hardware algorithm for ultra-fast rendering of wire lines at 500,000 pixels per second into the API. Above all, he simplified access to the filling of triangles with interpolation of colors: the famous Gouraud shading.
By providing these turnkey routines (the conceptual ancestors of shaders), Lazarus took all the mathematical burden off the shoulders of video game creators.
At the end of January 1988, the new floppy disks containing the Volta OS driver and GDI API were mailed to the European studios.
The result was seismic.
Rid of the tyranny of machine language and hardware bugs (totally invisible thanks to the HAL layer), programmers exploited the full power of SONG in a few days. 3D scenes of nearly a thousand shaded triangles rotating at 30 frames per second began to emerge, alongside platformers exploiting pixel-perfect hardware scrolling on 4 independent planes.
The chip was no longer an elusive puzzle. It was a magic wand. By providing the language to speak to his machine, Lazarus had just locked down an entire ecosystem. Video game creators had become irremediably addicted to Volta S.A.'s tools.
The weapon was now absolute, sharp and lethal. The European professional microcomputer market was already under control. It was time to tackle the top step of global digital entertainment.
Lazarus summoned Alexandre de Vigan to his office.
The sales shark, elegant in his striped double-breasted suit, took his place. He could feel the adrenaline pumping in the room.
"Alexander, the forge has done its job," Lazare announced, handing him a sleek black briefcase containing a SONG expansion card, the documentation of the registers, and the floppy disks for the new API. "The software ecosystem is perfect. It is time to take the war to the enemy's lands. »
"Where do you send me, Lazarus? At Commodore in America? »
"No. The future of video games will not be written in the United States. It will be written in Japan. »
De Vigan's eyes shone with a predatory glow.
"You will take a flight to the Japanese archipelago," the Builder ordered. "The Kyoto giants are currently preparing their next generation of 16-bit home consoles. They think they will dominate the coming decade with their small PPU processors, which are in their infancy. You're going to sit at their table, you're going to plug in our component, and you're going to show them what Volta has created. »
"What if they refuse our silicon? The Japanese are fiercely nationalistic about their technologies," the sales manager remarked.
Lazarus smiled with polar coldness.
"You'll remind them that the SONG chip handles 262,144 simultaneous colors thanks to its 18-bit palette. That it supports the hardware 16-bit Z-buffer for 3D and direct Hi-Color rendering. Our technology is proven to be nearly six years ahead of their prototypes. If they refuse the worldwide exclusivity of our coprocessor... you will take the train to Tokyo, and you will offer this same absolute monopoly to their direct competitor, Sega. »
De Vigan stood up, closing the black briefcase with a sharp snap that sounded like a gunshot. The diplomatic and industrial trap was perfect.
"Prepare the contracts of royalties, Lazarus. The Shogun of Kyoto will bend the knee. »
CHAPTER 32: Language and the Shogun
PART 2: The Siege of Kyoto
Location: Global headquarters of the video game giant (Kyoto, Japan)
Date : Printemps 1988
Point of view: Omniscient (Focus on Alexandre de Vigan)
The silence in the boardroom was of a mineral density.
In Kyoto, at the heart of the headquarters of the company that dominated the global family entertainment market, tradition rubbed shoulders with high technology. The sliding rice paper partitions filtered the harsh light of the Japanese spring, illuminating a huge rectangular table around which sat eight men in dark suits, perfectly identical.
On one side of the table, the historic executives of the Kyoto console manufacturer, guardians of the temple with marble faces. At their side, a delegation of engineers from Tokyo: the men of Sony Corporation, their technical partners, mandated to design the sound and hardware architecture of the group's future secret 16-bit console.
On the other side of the table, alone, stood Alexandre de Vigan.
The Volta S.A. shark had not blinked once since the beginning of his presentation. He had meticulously plugged his development prototype into the Trinitron video monitor at the end of the table. He had inserted the floppy disk containing the demonstrations powered by the SONG chip and its in-house API.
He had shown the impossible.
In front of the squinted eyes of the Japanese, the screen exploded with color. De Vigan had let the technical demo run: the 64 gigantic sprites undergoing 360-degree rotations without the slightest latency, the multidirectional scrolling on several planes of a disconcerting fluidity, and above all, the 3D ship with its Gouraud shading in real time, calculated thanks to the chip's hardware Z-buffer. All this with a palette of 262,144 colors.
It was a full-blown technological humiliation. The pride of Japanese engineering, which was working a graphics processor (the PPU) barely capable of doing pseudo-relief, had just been pulverized by a French company that they had only heard about in the banking economic press.
One of Sony's young engineers, sitting at the end of the row, was sweating profusely. His analytical mind had immediately understood that the small black ceramic chip on the table was a decade ahead of their own research.
However, when de Vigan cut off the screen and silence fell, the reaction of the general staff was disconcerting.
The dean of the board of directors, a white-haired man representing Kyoto's interests, exchanged a slow, indecipherable glance with the head of the Sony delegation. Consensus, the famous Wa of Japanese corporate culture, is established without a single word being spoken.
The head of the Sony delegation cleared his throat and addressed de Vigan in English with a strong diplomatic accent.
"Monsieur de Vigan. This presentation is... Visually very appealing. Your European engineers have shown a certain ingenuity. However, integrating a foreign component, with an ARM architecture that is not our internal standard, involves industrial risks that we do not take lightly. »
The dean of Kyoto nodded slowly, closing the discussion with icy courtesy.
"We thank you for making this long journey. It's an interesting technology. We will think about it. Our secretariat will contact you next month. »
Alexandre de Vigan smiled.
An inexperienced salesman would have been jubilant. He would have believed in a stage victory, thanked the assembly warmly, and returned to Paris to announce to his boss that the client was "studying the file".
But de Vigan was not a simple salesman. He was a predator trained in London investment banks. He was perfectly familiar with the codes of Asian negotiation. We will think about it (Kangaete okimasu) was the diplomatic and deadly translation of: Your proposal is rejected, we have no intention of buying your product, we will do our own research to copy you, thank you goodbye.
Volta's shark did not protest. He did not attempt to revive the sale.
He simply stood up, adjusted the button of his double-breasted suit with casual elegance, and closed his briefcase with a metallic click that cut the silence of the room.
"I understand perfectly, gentlemen," replied de Vigan in a suave voice, disconnecting the cables from his prototype. "It's a material paradigm shift. It's only natural that your decision-making structures need to... time. »
He picked up his suitcase, tilted his head perfectly, neither too obsequious, nor too arrogant.
"I will leave you to your reflections at once. I wish you a great day. »
He went to the sliding partitions of the exit. The Japanese executives exchanged surprised looks. This immediate surrender, without the slightest attempt to negotiate on prices, contradicted all their habits with the West.
De Vigan laid his hand on the handle. Then, as if he had just remembered a trivial detail, he stopped and pivoted slightly.
"Oh, by the way," he said, a carnivorous smile stretching his lips. "Don't bother to contact me again next month. I will no longer be available for this file. »
The head of the Sony delegation frowned. "Forgive me? Are you going back to France? »
"No. My train to Tokyo leaves in fifty minutes. De Vigan rolled up the sleeve of his jacket to look ostensibly at his Rolex. "Mr. Hayao Nakayama is waiting for me at his office in the Ota district at 5 p.m. sharp."
The name fell in the room like an incendiary bomb.
Hayao Nakayama was the president of Sega Enterprises. The sworn enemy. The direct competitor that threatened Kyoto's hegemony with its own 16-bit console in the works, the Mega Drive.
The face of the young Sony engineer turns pale. The dean of Kyoto stopped breathing.
"My president, Lazare Bonaparte, held you in high regard as market leaders. That is why we came to see you first," said de Vigan, savoring every syllable. "But since you need to think... I am going to offer the absolute monopoly of the world market to your direct competitor. With the SONG coprocessor under the hood, Sega's next machine will be six years ahead of yours. Before your new console even rolls out of the factory, Mr. Nakayama will have made it an antique. »
De Vigan slid the paper door down.
" Matte!" (Wait!)
The cry had not come from the dean of Kyoto, but from Sony's head of engineering. The veneer of corporate politeness had just burst under the pressure of a ruthless industrial reality. The engineer had stood up abruptly, his chair scraping noisily on the tatami. He turned to the Kyoto pundits and whispered in a hurried voice in Japanese, gesticulating nervously toward the switched-off monitor.
He told them the truth that their pride refused to see: If he gives this chip to Sega, we are dead. They have patented the future. We can't fight.
The dean of Kyoto closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, contempt had given way to pragmatic resignation. The Shogun had just realized that he was cornered.
"Monsieur de Vigan," said the dean, speaking again in English, his voice strained. "Please sit down. It would seem that our reflection was... faster than expected. »
De Vigan let go of the doorknob. He resumed his place in the center of the table, placing his briefcase in front of him again. He had just overthrown the empire.
"Perfect," said the shark, opening the briefcase to take out the contracts written by Maître Delacroix. "Let's talk business. Here are our terms, and they are non-negotiable. Volta S.A. will be your exclusive supplier for the graphics processing of your future console. You will pay a fixed unit price for each component melted by our Taiwanese partners. Best of all, you'll pay Volta a royalty on every video game cartridge sold worldwide that leverages our API libraries. »
The Japanese leaders wavered at the wording of this last clause.
"A royalty on third-party software?" a Sony representative choked. "But it's racketeering! We make the equipment, why should you get money on the studios' creations? »
"Because it is our mathematical tools that allow them to draw," de Vigan said with absolute coldness. "Without Volta's API, your console is just an empty box. You control the distribution of plastic. We control language. »
He pushed the documents towards the center of the table.
"Sign, gentlemen. And you'll be the undisputed masters of the living room of homes around the world for the next decade. Refuse, and I'll take the Shinkansen to Tokyo. »
The clock of the board of directors ticked down the seconds in a heavy silence. Finally, with the solemnity of a general signing the surrender of his army, the dean of Kyoto took out his fountain pen. He initialled the first page, then the second, accepting the technological yoke of Lazare Bonaparte.
Alexandre de Vigan retrieved the contracts with a façade of calm, concealing the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat.
As he left the world headquarters, the humid heat of the Kyoto spring enveloped him. He went to a public telephone booth, inserted several coins, and dialed the secure number of the laboratory in Ivry-sur-Seine.
"Yes?" replied Lazarus' tired voice on the other side of the world.
"The lock is set, Lazarus," de Vigan announced, looking at the cherry blossoms from the glass booth. "They signed. The kings of video games have just become our vassals. We're on the verge of conquering TVs all over the planet. »
Ten thousand miles away, the Builder listened to the news in the silence of the European night.
"Excellent work, Alexandre. Returns to Paris. The hardest part begins: they will have to deliver. »
The phone hung up. The first act of the entertainment empire had just been sealed. And Microsoft, on the other side of the Pacific, was still totally unaware that a European predator had just locked down the global standard for the future of multimedia.