My Game Empire

 After deciding to join the video game industry, Ethan had already spent time at the city library over the past two months. Because of this, he understood exactly what lawyer Barbara meant by "fifty-six years."

Under the United States Copyright Act of 1909, copyright protection lasted for twenty-eight years from the date of publication, with the option to renew it once—for a total of fifty-six years.

In other words, no matter how popular a work became, its creator could only enjoy exclusive income from it for fifty-six years. After that, the work would enter the public domain and be free for anyone to use.

This reality was, in fact, quite cruel. It could even happen that the author was still alive—yet others were already using his work to money. Ethan found laws like this puzzling.

From what he remember, the copyright law protected works for seventy years after the author's death, didn't it?

At the time, he simply assumed that U.S. copyright law must have changed at some point. But now...

Was that change just around the corner?

"Barbara," Evelyn spoke up, "are you saying that the Copyright Act of 1909 is going to be revised soon?"

"Yeah~ That's exactly what I'm saying! You heard me right!"

Ms. Barbara leaned back into the sofa, resting her arms comfortably on its sides. The soft cushions made her eyes instinctively narrow in pleasure, and even her voice carried a tone of satisfaction.

"Baby," she said with a smile, "a company that relies heavily on copyright is about to hit a wall. If the current law doesn't change, their cash cow will enter the public domain in just a few years. So, they've been lobbying hard for a change. They've been sending people to both parties for years now—because they desperately need the law updated. And they're willing to spend big to make it happen."

She glanced at them meaningfully. "When it comes to this, I, my colleagues, and even my professors agree—this company is going to get what it wants. It's just too important to America."

"Barbara, it's Disney, right??" he asked bluntly.

"Huh? Yes! It's Walt Disney!" Barbara chuckled in response. Her slender eyebrows arched playfully, and she looked genuinely delighted. "Their Mickey Mouse copyright is set to expire in 1984! So all you have to do is wait a little, and you'll get to enjoy the benefits of the new law. Convenient, isn't it?"

"Wait—why?" Evelyn asked, looking puzzled. "Barbara, if we register the copyright now, won't we still benefit from the new version of the law once it's enacted?"

"No, it doesn't work like that."

Before Barbara could reply, Ethan stepped in. "Evelyn, I get what Barbara means. Capitalists are greedy. Nobody knows exactly what kind of tricks they'll pull when lobbying—and nobody can guarantee they won't protect themselves while harming others."

"For example—do you know whether Mickey Mouse's current copyright is held under a natural person or a legal entity? That distinction matters. When Disney lobbies Congress, they might push for different protections depending on who owns the copyright. Maybe natural persons get one term, legal entities another."

He turned to Barbara. "That's what you mean, right? If we register now, we're basically betting our hard-earned Franklins on odds set by the capitalists. But if we wait until the new law passes, we can tailor our copyright registration to whatever gives us the best advantage. If natural persons get longer protection, we'll register as individuals. If corporations do, we'll start a company."

"Exactly!" Barbara nodded with a smile.

Suddenly, Ethan remembered something important. "That's right! I don't remember exactly which version of the U.S. Copyright Act it was, but I do remember there were different rules based on whether the copyright holder was a person or a corporation."

He couldn't recall the legal specifics—after all, he wasn't a lawyer—but the case of Disney said it all.

Walt Disney had died in 1966. If the law truly protected works for seventy years after the author's death, then Mickey Mouse should expire in 2036. But before he'd heard rumors that Mickey's copyright was again nearing expiration—and Disney was lobbying Congress yet again to change the law.

If the expiration date didn't line up with the seventy-year rule, there was only one conclusion:

Something was off. There had to be a loophole… and Disney had found it.

Without Ms. Barbara's reminder as a lawyer, Ethan might never have noticed. And maybe, in the end, it wouldn't have mattered.

But since she'd brought it up… In the land of America, wouldn't it be foolish not to follow the lead of the copyright madmen when it came to protecting intellectual property?

At that thought, Ethan paused. He looked at the girl beside him—and from the surprise in Evelyn's eyes, he could tell she had come to the same realization.

So he smiled and said, "Evelyn, in this country, if you're not focused on maximizing your profits, you'll never be able to participate in the business game."

"Who said I want to start a business…" Evelyn muttered stubbornly, though her tone lacked conviction.

"You still have to understand it," Ethan replied gently. "Because it's the same in everything else."

"In America, whatever we do—the first rule is to protect our own interests. Do everything you can to defend what's yours. Even if your goal is to change the world, you have to start by making yourself strong first."

"Okay! Okay!" Evelyn threw up her hands in mock defeat. "I was being childish just now, alright?"

Watching the exchange, Ms. Barbara crossed her arms with a satisfied look. "Ethan Jones, right? Have you ever considered studying law? If you're interested, you should come to Stanford this year."

She waved a hand nonchalantly, then added, "Sure, the fall application deadline passed in March—but that's for ordinary students. You can pick any major, study for four years, and then head straight into law school."

She leaned forward slightly, her voice turning serious. "Honestly, I think your mindset is excellent. So many people think passing the bar means they're ready to save the world. But they don't realize—you can't change anything until you've empowered yourself first."

"I really believe," she smiled, "that if you became a lawyer, your future would be very bright."

The sudden invitation caught Evelyn off guard. Her eyes widened instinctively—because she knew exactly what this meant.

But Ethan declined politely. "Ms. Barbara, thank you. Truly. I appreciate the recognition. If I ever need help, I'll definitely come find you."

He smiled gently. "But right now, what I want to know is—how can I protect myself legally without registering a copyright?"

"I believe," he continued, "since you advised us against registering a copyright—and even mentioned the risks of that damn expedited service—there must be another way to deal with all this... Right?"

Barbara sighed in admiration. "You really are talented. What a pity."

But there was no regret in her tone—just genuine approval.

Since he understood her implication, she didn't bother with subtlety anymore.

"I'll be blunt then," she said. "Yes, there are loopholes in the current system. Take something like an electronic arcade machine—it doesn't need a registered copyright at all."

Under Barbara's guidance, Ethan quickly learned how to use the law not just for defense—but as a tool.

The solution: register a patent for the Snake arcade machine.

At first glance, Snake didn't seem patentable. It was built using existing technologies, and a full review would likely result in rejection.

However, what most people didn't know was that in the U.S., patent applications were divided into two categories:

Formal Applications, which undergo a full review and require meeting strict originality standardsProvisional Applications, which do not require full technical claims, are faster, cheaper—and allow the applicant to reserve rights for up to a year

The formal patent application required a full set of materials: official claims, affidavits or sworn statements, an IDS (Information Disclosure Statement), and the designation of the inventor. Once submitted, the contents of the application couldn't be changed.

But the provisional application? That was different. You didn't need to provide any formal documentation. No technical claims, no affidavits—nothing. You simply filed the application with the U.S. Patent Office. Once filed, it granted you a one-year validity period.

Sure, a provisional application wouldn't result in a patent certificate. But that didn't matter to Ethan.

All he wanted was legal protection—a way to defend himself before the new copyright protection law took effect. As long as the Patent Office stamped his filing, anyone who dared to plagiarize Snake game would risk being sued under patent law.

The key difference was timing. The Copyright Office's expedited service only activated after an infringement had occurred. But during the process of verifying authorship, the victim often couldn't provide immediate proof—and without that, they couldn't even get the court to accept the case.

The Patent Office's provisional application, however, worked preemptively.

If someone copied your work, you could immediately take the provisional filing to court. Even if the court later decided it wasn't technically a patent infringement—but a copyright one—it didn't matter.

Why? Because you'd already skipped the waiting period involved in proving your authorship. That alone gave the plaintiff power to petition the court for an injunction—a legal order demanding the defendant cease all infringing activity.

"If Magnavox had done this back then," he murmured to himself, "Atari wouldn't have stood a chance."

If the court had ordered Atari to halt console production, Nolan Bushnell would've still been selling games from a garage.

Ethan was genuinely impressed. Using the law like this to defend your work?

It was like casting a spell—Barbara was a legal mage.

But as admiration gave way to curiosity, a new question surfaced in his mind.

"Wait a second, Barbara," Ethan said, brows furrowed. "Something doesn't add up. I remember Magnavox did file a patent for their home console—the Odyssey. So why couldn't they sue Atari with that?"

The moment he finished speaking, Ethan froze. Two seconds later, he slapped his forehead. "Oh! Fxxk! Nolan Bushnell made arcade machines!"

"Yeees~" Barbara grinned, giving him a delighted clap.

"Magnavox's patent covered home consoles. Atari's machines were installed in arcades. Two different product categories. How could Magnavox sue them for infringing on something they didn't even make?"

She leaned forward, her tone turning instructive.

"The situation you face is very different. Right now, the market thinks home consoles are unprofitable. If anyone tries to copy your game, they'll almost certainly do it as an electronic arcade machine. And that's exactly where your provisional patent comes in. The moment someone infringes, boom—you can sue them on the spot."

This wasn't just legal strategy—it was legal alchemy. He'd always known making money wouldn't be easy. But this?

This wasn't just business. It was war—fought with paperwork instead of bullets.

The fifty-minute conversation had been a masterclass. Ethan felt energized and enlightened.

As their meeting came to a close, he stood up and shook Barbara's hand with sincere enthusiasm.

"Thank you, Ms. Barbara," he said, smiling brightly. "I've learned more in one hour with you than I ever did in school."

Ethan stood at the door of her office and watched as she walked away.

Seeing her disappear down the hallway—trotting briskly back to class—Ethan suddenly had a question.

"Does Barbara take defense cases?"

"Of course," Evelyn replied with a smile, standing beside him.

"How much does she charge?"

"I actually asked that once," she said. "Before she came to the university, her hourly consultation fee was fifty dollars. But after she joined the faculty, since she also has to teach, she only answers legal questions for the school's teachers, students, and friends."

This pricing structure made Ethan a emotional.

"Now this... this is the real perk of going to college, huh?"

Evelyn nudged him playfully. "So... are you starting to regret not enrolling?"

"Regret?" Ethan snorted. "Are you kidding?"

He turned to her with a confident smirk. "I, Ethan Jones, am a man of conviction. Regret isn't in my vocabulary!"

"Even if I hadn't met Barbara today," he added, "I'd find someone else. You know, the Earth keeps spinning no matter who gets off."

"Really?" Evelyn's smile turned mischievous. "So, does that mean you won't come to me for help anymore?"

She stretched dramatically and sighed, "Ahh, what a relief! Finally, no one's going to bother me again!"

"??" Ethan blinked, stunned.

"!" He gave her a blank look, realization hitting hard.

Then— "I was wrong, sister!"

Note:

① To study law in the United States, you must first complete a bachelor's degree before applying to law school.

② The provisional patent application mentioned in the article is commonly used in the U.S. to obtain temporary legal protection. Many entrepreneurs find it useful, as the one-year period allows them to test their products in the market. If the product shows potential, they can file a formal patent application and begin seeking funding. If not, they can simply abandon the idea with minimal loss.