Sid Sackson's palsied hand shakes red pepper flakes onto an Entenmann's crumb cake. He stares at me, mouth working, trying furiously to say something, but no sound emits, to his frustration. I understand that I am dreaming, but it is a portentous dream, filled with inexplicable significance. Behind him stand Bing Gordon and Richard Hilleman; Hilleman is making a v-sign behind Gordon's head and mugging like a fool, holding up a copy of Madden. "These guys just want to go onto the next thing," Gordon is saying, "when the money is in the sequels." Sackson looks sad and finally forces out faintly-heard words: "There's really no need for any more games."
