Last month I briefly described my partnership with Rich Fiore and our first game concept, Spin Star. Because Fiore is more capable, his time is fully occupied with bringing Spin Star to life.
Meanwhile, I get to write a business plan and seek out investors. Unlike plans for building a house, which dictate exact shapes, sizes and materials, a business plan uses speculation and guesswork to show how money, energy and effort will combine to create success out of basic ideas. Because it is a business plan, that success always involves a profit. Because it involves ideas, that success also embodies hopes, dreams and aspirations.
Business plans are mainly written for investors, with a goal of demonstrating how success will be achieved, how investors will profit and why the plan is believable. Ultimately, a plan’s quality is established not so much by the ideas in it, but by the people behind the ideas. We all have dreams, but few can bring them to life. This got me wondering: How does one gain a reputation for “getting it done?”
My own journey had a troubled beginning. I never liked working for others and despised meetings, plans and schedules. I wanted to invent, create and innovate — not contemplate. In retrospect, I probably wanted to enjoy success without the hassle of actually earning it. Las Vegas in the early ‘80s was a great place for entrepreneurs, so I quit my job to pursue an idea for developing a progressive jackpot system. Progressives existed long before I came to town, but they were expensive, hard to use and unattractive. Though commonplace today, my big idea was to use microprocessors and software to cut costs and heighten performance.
I figured it would take about three months to build a good display and a controller to go with it. The controller’s function was to count coins played in the linked slot machines, add a percentage of each coin’s value to a jackpot value and send that amount to the display.
During my startup phase, money was never a problem — though lack of it certainly was. Married with three kids, a car payment and a mortgage, bills quickly decimated my savings account. The phone was disconnected, and my name could not be found on Nevada Power’s preferred customer list. I desperately needed to overcome that lack of money.
I needed a sale.
The Aladdin was putting in a new progressive poker link, so I went to see then-Slot Manager Ray Sylvestri. He liked my concept and the $9,500 price tag, which included three displays and a controller. Ray wanted the installation finished in four weeks, and I was less than a month into the design. I thought about saying I couldn’t do it. Then I thought about my unpaid bills. Then I decided to stop thinking altogether and said, “No problem, but I need a 50 percent deposit today.”
Back in the early ‘80s, casino purchasing departments were comparatively small and easily navigated. I picked up a check for $4,750 that afternoon. After stops at the bank, Central Telephone and Nevada Power, I pulled into a 7-Eleven and phoned home. My wife’s happy voice answered, “I can’t believe it’s ringing again!” That evening was blissful; we enjoyed restocked groceries, a new toy for each of the kids and heartfelt — though fleeting — relief.
Installation Thursday
Those next four weeks passed in a blur, as I worked 14- and 16-hour days trying to gain ground on the project. Installation Thursday found me with three working displays, but no controller to run them. Fitting all the functions of a progressive jackpot controller into just 2,048 bytes of memory — not megabytes, not kilobytes, but teensy weensy individual bytes — proved exceptionally difficult. I was able to make each and every function of the controller work; I just couldn’t fit them all on the same memory chip.
Ever the optimist, I loaded my equipment and hoped for a miracle. Perhaps IGT was late on machine delivery, maybe the sign wasn’t done or the slot stands didn’t get delivered. And electricians were always slow to install power, so there was still reason for hope. After all, people win jackpots every day against longer odds. According to my hastily devised plan, I’d arrive seemingly ready to install, find out which vendor was responsible for delaying the project and hide behind its error. I asked the parking valet to hold my car, saying, “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
I did not know where on the casino floor Sylvestri had placed the carousel and expected to spend a few minutes searching. That expectation went unmet; the carousel was located just south of the casino center — a prime spot. In it: seven brand new IGT video poker machines sitting proudly on slot stands, all powered up and ready to go. In the center was a Formica-encased triangular sign mounted atop a shiny new brass pole.
Terrified, I didn’t notice Sylvestri’s presence until he spoke. “IGT and the sign guys did a great job this morning, the electricians, too,” he said. “Get your meters in there, and we’ll open this thing up this afternoon. Need any help unloading?”
“Well, I’m a little behind. It’ll take me several hours to finish,” I replied.
Obviously disappointed, Sylvestri said, “OK, so long as we open the bank by Friday afternoon, we’re fine.” He walked away. I unloaded and told the valet he should park the car after all. The displays were finished, so I mounted them first, believing it important to show early progress. I had a chip programmed for running the displays in a diagnostic mode and installed it. A soft clicking sound could be heard as the mechanical elements in each display stepped through an endless test pattern.
The casino was a noisy place for development work, but I didn’t dare leave. Caught between competing desires to vomit and run away, I spent hours going through the motions of work. Afternoon turned to evening as my mind began a wide search — not for a solution, but for an excuse. Maybe I should just get sick right there on the casino floor. Maybe I should move a display, let it fall and get smacked in the head. Maybe I should just go talk to Sylvestri. Of all my thoughts, that last one was the least appealing.
Sylvestri’s voice interrupted my thinking. “You been working all night?” he asked. I nodded. “Will it be done by noon?” he asked. I paused for a few seconds and nodded once more. All hope of escape lost, I continued to work, or at least pretended to work. I was so panicked about what might happen next, I could not function.
At 1 p.m. Friday, Sylvestri appeared, wearing no hint of a smile. “John, let’s talk,” he said. I climbed out of the carousel and followed him to the coffee shop, where we took a small corner booth. “John, you promised me this project would be done today. It isn’t. A lot of money was spent on these games, and we should be earning it back right now. You aren’t close to done yet, are you?”
I remained silent as Sylvestri continued, “Look, I do admire your effort. Ed isn’t here this weekend, or he’d have my head and throw you out on your ear. I called IGT and they can’t get a progressive system in here today, so this weekend is lost. You can keep working if you want. But if you leave the casino, don’t come back. And if you’re not running on Monday morning, I’m calling IGT in to replace you.” He rose and walked away.
Down, but Not Out
I was tired, defeated and humiliated. I tried to imagine where I’d get the money to pay back the deposit. Though a quarter-century has since passed, I can still feel that stomach-churning sense of failure. At that moment, I knew with certainty that I had failed, that I would always fail and that I was the worst imaginable kind of person: a loser.
Perhaps 15 minutes passed as I wallowed in my private puddle of self-pity, which, in a twisted sort of way, was very comforting. I imagined my woes as the world’s fault and not mine. I tried to be mad at Sylvestri, but found it impossible. He was right to be angry and generous to give the weekend as a second chance. I was 100 percent to blame for my failure, and I was the only one that could fix it — if it could be fixed.
I realized then that Sylvestri didn’t want his deposit returned; he wanted a progressive link that worked. Sure, Sylvestri was angry; he had every right to be. I couldn’t fix that. But maybe I could redeem myself by Monday morning. I owed Sylvestri, my family and myself the best effort I could possibly give. If I was destined to lose, I wasn’t going to let it happen without a fight.
I went back to the carousel, where the noises and people were no longer distracting. My mind focused, and the insurmountable problems of yesterday seemed less intimidating. I kept track of time only by the rhythm of the casino as the crowds and commotion grew through Friday night, and then fell away into the early hours of Saturday. I worked through that afternoon, barely noticing the intensity of Saturday night’s activity.
Progress
Those long hours were almost enjoyable and passed quickly. I found ways to combine functions and reduce steps in my program. My code grew smaller and smaller with each passing hour until, finally, everything fit. I burned a new chip, installed the controller and dropped three quarters into one of the games. Amazingly, the displays progressed by a penny. I played three more quarters and panicked when the jackpot jumped by two cents. Then I remembered: A two percent increment across two plays of 75 cents each is three cents! I coin-tested the other six machines and found success on each.
My supply of quarters exhausted, and not thinking to ask permission, I removed the ropes surrounding the games and watched as play began. Soon, all seven games were occupied, and the jackpot steadily increased. I watched for perhaps an hour. Finally I asked someone what time it was: 5:30 p.m.
When I asked what day it was, I received a look of puzzlement, fear and disgust. Finally I heard the reply. It was Sunday. I’d been in that carousel for more than 75 hours, and I stunk. To the players around me, I was an unwashed lunatic who spent all his days hanging out at a casino.
I realized then what a mistake it was to open the carousel without permission, but I lacked the courage — and the energy — to close it down. I tucked all my test equipment inside the carousel, fetched my car and drove home. Awake again at 4 a.m., I returned to ensure it hadn’t all been a dream. Only a few dedicated souls choose to wager in the dawn of Monday mornings, and a solitary player wagered on my carousel. I measured his every bet and calculated what the meter should grow to. Each play brought complete agreement between my estimation and the amount displayed.
I felt relief, embarrassment, pride and exhaustion as I watched and calculated. Sylvestri came in early that morning, nodded and walked by. I went home and slept again. When I returned Tuesday morning, Sylvestri chose to speak. “You really let me down,” he told me. “You made a commitment. You didn’t tell me there was trouble, even after you knew you couldn’t keep that commitment. Your immaturity cost us a weekend of earnings. Still, you stuck it out and got it done. I guess you’re OK.”
A week later I picked up the final payment. I spoke to Sylvestri a few times after that, but never worked on another job for him. That progressive design was a success, and I sold a lot of them: Cecil Freddi at the Frontier, George Thompson at Golden Nugget and others I can no longer remember. My system found its way to Atlantic City, Laughlin, Reno and even South Africa. When necessary, Sylvestri gracefully vouched for the product without so much as a whisper of the trial I put him through.
Getting It Done
As time passed, I got better at planning, better at estimating and better at communicating when problems arose. I hired programmers, installers and office staff. I named my business Electronic Display Technology, because we made electronic displays, and because the name sounded a lot like the one chosen by Si Redd for his newly public company. When that company began going by IGT, I started calling my little enterprise EDT. We grew to more than 100 employees, and sometimes completed four or five separate installations in a single day — most of them larger than that Aladdin job.
Still, whenever I was down, whenever I wasn’t sure if I could accomplish a goal and whenever I just couldn’t sleep, I went back to the Aladdin and listened to the quiet clicking of those mechanical displays to remind myself that effort and focus can surmount most obstacles, while fear, panic and blame always make them larger.
I look back on the Aladdin with sincere pride, accomplishment and a lingering sense of humility. I also see it really wasn’t my efforts that made the carousel work, it was Ray Sylvestri’s. A lesser manager would have lost his temper and justifiably tossed that immature pretender out on his ear — just as his boss Ed Torres surely would have.
Sylvestri knew the real goal was to install a working progressive poker carousel. Temper checked, priorities in order, Sylvestri showed the patience, focus and maturity to evaluate a situation and manage through it — despite disappointment, uncertainty and adversity.
I lost track of Sylvestri long ago, but I’ve never forgotten him. Today I write my business plan with the confidence and caution years of experience so generously provide, all built on that lesson Sylvestri taught me a quarter-century ago: the simple importance of “getting it done.”
John Acres is CEO of Acres-Fiore and a Director of Game Logic Inc. He is the Founder of EDT, Mikohn, and Acres Gaming, and holds a number of U.S. patents relating to the gaming industry. He can be reached at john[at]acresconcepts.com or (541) 738-4301.
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