THE UNLIKELY TALE OF MARKUS "NOTCH" PERSSON

CHAPTER 1

THREE, TWO, ONE . . .

IT'S NOVEMBER 18, 2011 . An old man in a gray sweater looks up from his slot mashine children, teens, and grown-ups flows through the casino. There outfits are odd, even for this place. in las vegas, you can count on seeing much anything: Elvis imperso-
nators lined up on the sidewalks. The people streaming through the the casino at the hotel. some people are wearing cardboard boxes on there head. Some are in full cardboard-box body suits with armholes that look uncomfortable and make their elbows straight out. Like cubist comic-strip characters with the posture of body builders. The man at slot machines, clueless, returns to his game, his ciggarette, and his morning cocktail. The cardboard-box people aren't there to win money. They continue toward the convention facilities that are next to the casino, where in a few minutes they will be cheering as they watch a thirthy-two-year-old swede pull a lever and release the finished version of there favorite game. Minecraft. A computer game as incomprehensible to the uninitiated as it is wildly adored by tens of millions of people. Those who've travelled here are among the game's most devoted fans. Not only have they paid airfare but also, before embarking for las vegas, they cut and glued their suits, modeled on the game's primated block graphics and shapes and are thousands of them, representing a total of twenty-three countries. I think youngest is four and the oldest is around seventy. of the many parents, some of the parents have just made the trip for their kids and now observing awe a world their offspring adore but that is alien to them. Others are just passionate as their children. "we play comtantly," says a dad with green-tinted hair, wearing a suit sprayed green, his face covered with black bars as he poses for pictures with his identically decked-out son. A few minutes later. The convention hall where we're seated is the largert at Mandalay Bay. It's completely packed and the lights are off. All eyes turned towards the stage and lydia winters, who--impossible to recognize with her short, pinked hair
--is firing up the audience."this weekend is going to be awsome!"
you can see giant screens that are mounted on both sides of the stage so that those sitting farther back could see what's happening. They all show Lydia's happy, glowing, almost cartoon-toon-character-like smile.
"So many people's . . . lives been change by this game!"
Next to the stage, just to the left, the weekend's big star is just waiting for the signal to step up to the spot light; Markus Persson, dressed in jeans, well-worn sneakers, and a black polo that's a big tight around the middle. As always, he's wearing a black fedora. Markus doesn't know what to do with his hands while he waits. He pulls absentmindedly at the hem of his shirt before his hands land in his jean pockets, thumbs out.
There is an ocean of five thousand people seated before him--if seated is the right word, because many of them stand up as first of Markus's colleagues arrive onstage. Lydia Winters calls them up and one by one they trudge onstage, shyly wave a little at the audience, and lines up beside her. Jens Bergensten--the proggramer, tall, lanky, his red ponytail hanging down his back.
Carl Manneh--the CEO, who is perfecly okay with Lydia keeping the microphone. Jakob Porser-