I was a programmer—not the worst one. I lived a quiet, peaceful life, enjoying my favorite hobby: in the evenings and on weekends, I created games.
By the will of the Flying Spaghetti Monster or Cthulhu, I ended up in 1982, in California, in the body of a teenager from a dysfunctional family. I live in a peeling, rusty auto-dwelling in a trailer park.
But in my head there are dozens of hit plotlines and gameplay mechanics. I’ll create the best version of the games industry and, on top of that, earn a little—at least a couple of billions—doing it! I just need to get hold of a computer.