My Game Empire

"Okay," Barbara said, settling into her chair. "Small talk's over. Let's get to it."

She gestured for Ethan and Evelyn to sit across from her. As she did, she glanced at her watch and smiled. "It's eight o'clock now. I have a class at nine. So"—she looked up—"you've got fifty minutes. Let's use them well."

The crispness of her tone made Ethan nod respectfully. He glanced at Evelyn beside him. She gave him a subtle nod—go ahead. Taking a steady breath, Ethan spoke:

"Professor Barbara, the main reason we're here today is to consult you about the copyright status of video games. This industry is still very new… so we'd like to know—are video games protected by copyright? And if so, how can we use the law to protect ourselves?"

He paused, sensing his question might've sounded idiotic. So he quickly added with a self-deprecating smile, "Please forgive my ignorance. I know the law tends to lag behind technology… That's about the extent of my understanding."

Barbara let out a soft snort and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

"It's fine, Ethan. You don't need to be formal with me. I already know about Magnavox and Atari."

Ethan blinked. "You do?"

"Mhm," she nodded. "Evelyn came to me about this... oh, what was it—two years ago? Around the time Nolan Bushnell's plagiarism scandal broke. She wanted a consultation."

"What?" Ethan turned to his sister, stunned. Evelyn leaned casually on the sofa, her tone matter-of-fact. "I thought you might need legal support one day. If Magnavox ever decided to sue you, we'd have to fight back with something stronger than whatever two-bit lawyers they'd expect us to fold against."

She shrugged. "You need someone who can outmaneuver bullies, not play fair with them."

Ethan stared at her. This was the same Evelyn who'd teased, nagged, and sparred with him nonstop for the past three years?

"Thank you…" he said, a little moved. But deep down, he wasn't just speaking for himself. He was thanking the real Ethan Jones—the one who had died to give him this chance. That guy, in retrospect, had really had it rough.

Then— "Hey!" Barbara interjected, raising an eyebrow. "Who are you calling a 'bully'?"

The exchange between the siblings hadn't gone unheard. Evelyn grinned and playfully leaned over, linking her arm with Barbara's.

"Oh, come on, Professor. I meant it as a compliment! You're the best kind of bully."

Barbara tried to look stern, but it didn't last. "Hmph!" she snorted, then burst into laughter. "Alright, alright. That's enough. Let's not waste any more time."

Then, with a warm but confident smile, Barbara turned to Ethan and answered his question directly:

"Ethan, your question is actually very simple—yes. Video games are protected by copyright law."

"However, I need to make something clear before we continue," Barbara said, raising a finger. "The copyright law currently in effect in the United States was enacted in 1909. Since video games didn't exist back then, the legislation naturally didn't account for them when defining categories eligible for copyright."

She took a moment to let that sink in before continuing.

"That said, the lawmakers of that time weren't clueless. They anticipated future developments and included broader categories in the language of the law. For example, the 1909 Copyright Act states that copyrightable works include 'books, music, dramatic works, motion pictures, and other published or unpublished works.'"

She emphasized: "That last part—'other works'—is what we rely on today."

"So," she concluded, "the legal consensus in our profession is that video games fall under this umbrella term. Which means if someone copies a video game's content, the 1909 Act still applies."

Ethan nodded slowly. "So that's how it works?"

Barbara's explanation had been clear, and Ethan had understood it. But perhaps because he now understood it so clearly… he was also more confused.

Frowning, he voiced the doubt that had been gnawing at him.

"But, Professor Barbara, if video games are already covered under copyright law, then how could Atari dare to plagiarize Magnavox's game in the first place?"

Yes. That was the issue—and the reason Ethan was desperate to find solid legal counsel.

In Ethan's future world, U.S. copyright law was notoriously strict. If it hadn't been, people wouldn't joke about being stranded on an island, drawing a certain mouse, and then getting rescued the next day!

Yet now, standing in the 1970s, the infamous lawsuit between Magnavox and Atari seemed to defy all logic.

According to the memories Ethan inherited:

Atari's plagiarism had taken place as early as 1972.Magnavox knew about it by 1973.Yet they didn't officially file a lawsuit until 1974.

To any rational observer, that delay seemed incredibly suspicious.

What kind of company would know their intellectual property was being copied, watch their competitor profit off it, and just… sit back?

Ethan's pointed question made Barbara raise an eyebrow. She calmly took a sip of her coffee and then smiled.

"Ethan, you're absolutely right to be skeptical. I had the same reaction when I first looked into the case. So, I did a bit of digging."

She leaned forward and added, "What I found is that the real issue wasn't Atari, or even Magnavox. The root of the problem was actually at the U.S. Copyright Office."

"...???" Evelyn was intrigued.

"You mean it was the fault of the government clerks or—"

"No, no, no—" Barbara cut her off with a laugh, waving a hand.

"It's not about incompetence or corruption. The issue was legal ambiguity."

She explained: "As I mentioned, the 1909 law didn't list video games specifically. So when Magnavox went to register the copyright for their game, the reviewers didn't know how to classify it."

"They weren't sure whether it counted as music... or visual media... or maybe even a motion picture. Each of those categories required separate registration forms."

"But Magnavox believed—rightfully so—that their game was a unified experience. Splitting it into categories for legal paperwork didn't make sense to them."

Ethan and Evelyn were now listening with rapt attention.

Barbara continued, "Because they couldn't agree on a proper classification, the registration stalled. And in the end, Magnavox only filed a patent for the Odyssey console hardware, but they never successfully registered a copyright for the actual game content."

"...Which left the game's creative elements unprotected?" Ethan asked.

Barbara nodded. "Exactly. And that's what gave Atari the opening to release Pong, a thinly-veiled copy of Table Tennis, without immediate legal consequences."

"What?" The explanation left him completely speechless.

Because, frankly… It just sounded completely ridiculous.

His disbelief was written all over his face, and Barbara noticed immediately.

"It's outrageous, right?" she said with a knowing smile.

"But that's reality for you. Only in real life can something so illogical actually make sense."

She let out a small sigh and raised her hands slightly.

"And I'm not even done yet. The really absurd part is still coming."

She leaned in, her tone taking on a mock conspiratorial tone.

"Do you know why Magnavox didn't even bother registering the copyright for their games back then?"

Ethan blinked, still processing. Evelyn leaned forward, curious.

Barbara continued, "Because of something called expedited service offered by the U.S. Copyright Office."

Seeing their blank looks, she smiled. "You might not have heard of it, but I'm quite familiar—I've used it myself."

She steepled her fingers. "Now, under the 1909 Copyright Act, a work is technically protected whether or not it's registered. But here's the kicker: if you want to enforce your rights in court, you must register it."

"Wait… what?" Ethan asked, frowning.

"I know, it sounds like a paradox," Barbara said. "But here's how it works: even if you didn't register your work right away, if it's infringed upon, you can later apply for expedited registration. The Copyright Office will then issue a certificate, and on the back, it will specify the effective date of copyright protection.

So let's say I wrote a song in 1965," she explained, "but only now apply for copyright after someone copied it. The certificate will say 'Copyright effective from 1965'—as long as I can prove that date."

"So what does this have to do with Magnavox?" Ethan asked.

Barbara smiled slyly."Everything. You see, when Magnavox and the Copyright Office couldn't agree on how to classify their game, they didn't push the issue. Why? Because they knew that if anyone copied their game and made serious money off of it, they could just file for expedited registration after the fact and still sue them."

She gave a little chuckle. "They basically said, 'Fine. We'll wait. If someone copies us and hits it big, we'll swoop in with an expedited registration and take them to court.'"

Ethan was quiet. The pieces were falling into place.

Barbara concluded with a flourish, her eyes twinkling. "So you see, Nolan Bushnell did copy the game. But Magnavox didn't move right away because they hadn't registered the copyright. Once Atari's Pong became a massive hit—that's when Magnavox finally acted.

Because now… there was money on the table."

She sipped her coffee and added with a smirk: "The catch? Magnavox still had to prove when their game was originally created, and during that awkward period of evidence gathering… they couldn't immediately protect their rights. That's the gap Atari exploited."

"Also, you have to pay attention to one thing," Barbara added with a raised finger. "Pong wasn't even Nolan Bushnell's first arcade game. Before launching it, he made other games too. They just didn't do well. The original copyright holders didn't notice—or didn't care."

"So basically…" Ethan muttered, the pieces finally clicking together.

"Magnavox relied on the Copyright Office's time-traveling paperwork to let Atari win everything up front!"

He let out a dry laugh, half amused, half exasperated.

"God. This is classic American legal art."

Though Lawyer Barbara's explanation had sounded absurd, Ethan couldn't deny it made sense now. In a country where anything can happen—including sending refugees back and forth like ping-pong balls—this kind of legal loophole stunt was practically tradition.

"Honestly, compared to the nonsense I've seen in the 21st century…" Ethan thought with a wry grin, "Magnavox's maneuver isn't even that wild. Just a corporate joke, really."

"Okay, Teacher Barbara," he said, trying to suppress his laughter and sound serious, "thank you so much for your explanation."

At last, the fog had lifted. He finally understood why the Ethan had been so stuck—and how to avoid making the same mistake.

So now, in 1975—this chaotic, semi-lawless era—he had clarity:

Video games are protected. And Snake, once copyrighted, could be sold.

Which means...So he leaned forward eagerly. "Barbara," he asked, "if I want to register Snake's copyright now, can I just use 'video game' as the category? I won't get rejected like Magnavox, right?"

Barbara nodded confidently. "Of course not. Actually, ever since Magnavox officially sued Atari last year, the Copyright Office finally started accepting video games under their own category. You can absolutely register your content as a video game."

"Perfect!" Ethan was practically beaming.

He opened his mouth to say thank you and start planning the paperwork when—

"However," Barbara interrupted with a knowing smile, "I wouldn't recommend you register it just yet."

"Huh?" Ethan blinked. Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "Why not, Barbara?"

Barbara chuckled at their identical confusion.

"Because, my dears," she said, leaning back in her chair, "you're incredibly lucky. That 56-year copyright term limit from 1909? It's about to get torched by a wave of capitalist reform."

-----------------------------

Note:

① The anecdote about the Copyright Office in the story is true. The "expedited service" is officially called special handling, and it can only be applied for under specific circumstances—such as imminent risk of copyright infringement, urgent customs issues, or when there's a contractual or publication deadline that requires faster issuance. Once accepted, the Copyright Office typically processes and issues a registration certificate within five working days.

Ironically, this service has ended up harming many people. Why? Because it often creates ambiguity around the actual copyright date. You can't always prove exactly when protection started—especially if you didn't register right away. That gap can be exploited.

There are even more bizarre cases involving copyright protection. If you're curious, look up Richard Prince, a famous appropriation artist in the United States. His "creative process" often involves removing text from other people's artworks and then re-photographing them. The result? He's awarded copyright protection for these modified works.

What's more shocking is that the Copyright Office approved it—saying that his alterations met the threshold of "minimal originality" required under U.S. copyright law. Outrageous, but real.

Even crazier? The Marlboro incident. Marlboro paid to shoot its own commercial—then Richard Prince photographed a still from it, and that photo received copyright protection as his "original" work.

Welcome to the wild west of American copyright.