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How I became a nerd?

Stewart’s story begins with a passion for math and for building and creating stuff, specifically in a way that didn’t punish his left-handedness! It then moves into the creation of video game giant EA from the very beginning, before there was even a video game industry.  As he says, a true “Revenge of the Nerds” tale…   –Jon Kraft

I knew I was different than most kids at an early age and it was not just because I was left-handed.  Right-handed people don’t realize how right-handed the world is.  Try writing in a 3-ring binder or spiral-bound notebook with those big rings in the way. Or worse, try writing or drawing when your hand follows and smears everything you try to create.

It’s not just because I could not write neatly or draw accurately that my form of creating was to build. I fell in love with tinker toys, Lincoln Logs, and American Bricks. If I was your age today it would be Legos.

What I loved about that form of play was that you could imagine, build, change, and build more and there were never any eraser marks, torn paper, or smudges. You can build without fear of showing your mistakes. You can always make it better and I loved trying to make something perfect.

When I reached the summer before my 4th grade, my parents moved us to a new neighborhood.  If you have ever had to move to a new school you know how scary that can be.  My parents knew this as well and enrolled me in summer school.  At first, I thought this was going to be a boring way to spend the summer when all I wanted to do was play first base on a new little league team.  I did get to select the classes myself and one that sounded interesting was “Fun with Math.”

I’m sure you are wondering how math could be fun. Well, it was not a summer spent filling out worksheets; I spent the summer working on puzzles, discovering interesting things about numbers and with every new thing I learned I found there was even more to learn. I solved puzzles where I had to move matchsticks, fill in number squares, or solve fun word problems. This was the beginning of my love of math.

By the time I made it to high school my excitement about math was in high gear. I took advanced math classes where most of the kids were older than me. I joined the Math Team (seriously) and we competed against other high schools by solving more problems faster. I even competed in a national competition put on by the MAA (the Mathematical Association of America). This test consists of very challenging problems in Algebra, Geometry and even Calculus. A perfect score is 150 points but anything above 25 was impressive. As a sophomore, I got the highest score in my school. I was now officially and nationally recognized as a nerd. We didn’t get letterman jackets so nobody outside of our club knew much about us though. We nerds only got one club picture in the yearbook.

My personal “Revenge of the Nerds” story took many more years but it happened.  I went to college and fell in love with computers.  It was just like Legos except you typed what you wanted to build. I loved it so much that I went to work at IBM right out of college.  Today I would probably work at Google or Microsoft.  It was a serious job but I always stayed late and found some nerds who knew that computers could be fun to play with and not just for serious stuff.  We made games to fly planes or play pinball or create our own Startrek episode where we got to be the captain of the Starship Enterprise. In those days a computer was the size of a VW.

I kept playing with computers until IBM and Apple invented personal computers. This was the point that everything I had done before finally became clear. PC’s would allow a whole new form of fun to be created. My goal in life became creating games that everyone would like not just nerds. I wanted them to be as interesting and exciting as the best movies, tv, and books but have that added dimension of interactivity. All media before the computer you just sit there but with computers, you interact.

Just like I discovered in school that I was not the only person like me, I was fortunate to have met people at the time that shared my view of how important games on a PC could be. We started a company that would push the boundaries of entertainment and art on a computer. We also wanted to recognize that these games were created by talented, driven individuals who were a new type of artist creating a new form of art. After much debate, we decided to call the company Electronic Arts. It became the publisher of popular games like Madden Football, FIFA Soccer, The Sims and many, many other games and today employs almost 10,000 people worldwide. When we began in 1982, the video game business did not exist.  Today it is a $50B industry worldwide.

Today, every day is new and interesting just like it was as a child. I was fortunate to have found something that excited me and I never lost faith in the belief that this excitement would be interesting to others. There were many ups and downs, victories and defeats along the way but being true to my passions kept me on the path to success and happiness. And it turns out I was not as different as I thought.l

Stewart-BonnSteward Bonn joined Electronic Arts in 1983 as the 18th employee. During his 12 years, he produced many of Electronic Arts’ most successful titles including software for music, paint, flight simulation and children’s education. As SVP/GM of EA Studios, he led the world’s largest interactive studio. Since then he has been a Co-Founder or an Advisor to numerous social media and game companies. Stewart earned a BS in EECS from UC Berkeley and received the 1993 Stanford Business School Entrepreneurial Company of the Year award as one of 5 EA executives.



How to be unreasonably happy

Glenn’s is the first of many posts in this channel intended to show how discovering and pursuing strengths & passions early in life can drive the development of profound insights and life-defining characteristics.  In Glenn’s story, leadership and independence of thought, all wrapped around chess, dungeons & dragons, and creative back-yard shenanigans, are the things that popped out for me.  –Jon Kraft

For years, my extracurricular activity was David Perteet: speed-chess champion, dungeon master, nutmeg artist.

We became friends when Dave was 14. My twin brother and I were 11. His house, two doors down from ours, was more like a lair, filled with H. P. Lovecraft books, Star Wars figurines, home-made monster masks, videotaped slasher movies.

It was in Dave’s house that my twin brother and I led our paladins and monks through Dungeons & Dragons campaigns with names no one could forget: The Tomb of Horrors, Queen of the Demonweb Pits, Hall of the Fire Giant King, Expedition to the Barrier Peaks.


As the dungeon master, Dave described every scene, playing the part of the monsters we faced. Hunched behind propped up maps and monster manuals, he worked a small piece of clay in the lulls, which he would abruptly plop down before us as a perfectly formed lich. Monsters that were sophisticated and derisive at first became pitiable in the end. Others were bafflingly, implacably sadistic. They were all evil so we could be good, and their deaths were deeply satisfying.

When, after many years of play, our characters died, Dave had begun to describe how our corpses were being eaten and picked over for treasure and then he stopped short because we could not lived to see, we felt the first moment of solemnity I can remember. I realized then that death isn’t just painful; it means you don’t get to find out what happens next, who will win the World Series or the next election. Nothing had been so permanent before.

From the safety of college, all this came to seem silly. When I visited Dave in LA he had become a special-effects artist, living in a house filled with like-minded friends. We played badminton and watched a James-Bond movie marathon, but at night we hiked through an abandoned Nazi compound and then went to his garage, which was filled with moldings recovered from the movie “Aliens.” Standing next to one, I barely felt a tickle of fear until he slipped back into his house, turned off the lights, and slammed the door shut.

Some of Dave’s authority was physical. His backyard from our childhood was sloped, with a ribbon of grass that narrowed and widened according to the encroachment of Douglas firs on one side and his deck on the other. In the wet piney gloom of Seattle fall evenings, he played me and my brother in 2-on-1 soccer, passing the ball to himself off the side of the deck. He never lost, but his true goal was to kick the ball through our legs, calling out “Nutmeg” as he did. He laughed when he did this, like one of the monsters we would later vanquish, but we laughed too.

This wasn’t the only way I learned how to lose from Dave, who also introduced me to chess, not as an antique game you played with your dad, but as a tournament sport where a loss is an utterly chanceless two-hour asphyxiation by a superior intellect. I learned the almost physical trade of speed-chess, knocking pieces and banging the timing clocks in a 50-move, five-minute free-for-all.

I became president of the high-school chess team after Dave left for college, inserting my name into the school bulletin as a contact for new players, which opened me to more scorn than I could have imagined in our years with Dave. The team soon collapsed.

We had talked every day, but once Dave was gone then barely spoke again. All the terrors my brother and I had rehearsed in his backyard became real. That year, our mother battled cancer nearly to the death and our doting father, deeply in love with her, almost forgot about us. We got interested in girls and realized they weren’t interested in us. Our older brother got into drugs and then violence, which the local paper decided was front-page news.

But Wes and I both remember our childhood – Dave’s dark, crooked backyard, the dining room filled with papers and greasy popcorn bowls as happy. There’s a huge difference between most of the friends you have who teach you how to fit in and the one friend, it is usually just one who teaches you that you don’t have to fit in.

From Dave, I learned how to be like an adult. I don’t mean that I learned to be an adult: our whole world was intensely pubescent, female-free, imaginary. But I learned from Dave what an adult sounded like, that he has opinions, that he can like what he likes, that he knows that what other people say is sometimes wrong, that he can stand up for himself. Once, while we were throwing a football in the street, a cement mixer ran over my family’s beagle without stopping and Dave who despised that dog ran after the driver, yelling, for half a mile.

This gave me a way to think about being a leader without being the prom king or team captain. It gave me a way to think about a new product or a new company, as just one more expedition to the barrier peaks. It protected long into adulthood the essence of childhood, which is a sense of adventure. And it gave me the confidence to be different, so I could fail again and again without feeling like a failure at all.

When I co-founded a company at 25, it was in another friend’s basement, but it felt exactly like Dave’s basement, a bit scary but also familiar. What is a startup, after all, if not the endless return, company after company, to that awkward larval phase of adolescence when you can’t go back to the way you were and wonder how you’ll go on surrounded by people you see all the time then never see again, feeling half a fraud and half the rawest version of your true self?

Years later, Dave found me on Facebook and then sent me an email. What was I like now? The note I wrote back was cautious, in part because being an adult had somehow tempered everything I said so that it could sound more knowing or wistful. I said I was “reasonably happy.”

“‘Reasonably happy’!?” Dave wrote back. “Life is awesome!  Maybe you need to meet another minotaur to give you some perspective.”



Glenn Kelman is the CEO of Redfin, a technology-powered real estate brokerage. Follow him on Twitter @glennkelman. When Glenn asked Dave for permission to publish this post, Dave wrote, “When my robot body finally fails at age 274, I want this read at my space-funeral.”


(Dungeon Photo credit: David Barnas on Flickr)