My Game Empire

When Ethan stepped into Evelyn's experimental lab again, he was greeted by a surprisingly tidy scene: an empty table and a clean space. The neatly stacked tools and components piled in the corner, while the casually discarded broom and dustpan told a different story.

Ethan bent down and put the broom and dustpan back in their place, an act of instinctive tidiness. Evelyn, watching his almost compulsive behavior, shook her head with a helpless smile.

"I left those there on purpose," she said. "Makes them easier to grab when I need them."

"But it doesn't look nice," Ethan replied with a grin.

Evelyn rolled her eyes. "Fine, as long as it makes you happy."

Though she scoffed at the wasted effort, her tone lacked bite. She was in a good mood and didn't feel like arguing with her brother. Instead, she clapped her hands on the table and shifted back to the matter at hand.

"Ethan, making a circuit board is actually very simple," she began. "The first step is drawing a circuit diagram. Since you haven't studied this systematically, I'll skip that part for now. If you want, I can teach you later. But today, we're going to use the circuit diagram I designed last night."

She waved a sheet of paper covered in a dense web of lines.

"Once you have the schematic," she continued, "the second step is to cut a copper board to the right size."

Stepping confidently up to the workstation, Evelyn was now completely in her element. She picked up a rectangular copper-clad board Ethan had bought earlier.

"You'd better remember everything I'm about to tell you," she warned. "Whenever we need to produce small-scale circuit boards, we'll be using boards like this."

She tapped the board lightly with her fingers. "This," she said, "is a phenolic paper-based copper-clad board. It's made with phenolic resin as the adhesive and wood pulp fiber paper as the reinforcement material. The surface is covered with a thin layer of copper foil."

"Remember the dimensions," she went on. "The total thickness is 63 mils, and the copper foil layer is 1.4 mils. This ratio—refined through the hands-on experience of countless engineers—is close to ideal for small circuit boards."

She looked at Ethan, serious now. "If the board is too thick, it becomes hard to process. If it's too thin, it's soft and prone to deformation. Even worse, heat resistance drops significantly. As for the copper layer—thicker foil means better conductivity, higher heat tolerance, and stronger resistance to interference. Thin foil? Poor conductivity, and more likely to crack or break."

To be honest, Ethan had known that making a circuit board by hand would be a bit of a hassle—but he hadn't expected it to be this much trouble.

Just one small circuit board, and even the choice of materials required such careful consideration?

This was an entirely new world to him. Yet, the more clearly Evelyn explained each step, the more at ease he felt.

After all, only those who truly understand something have the confidence to explain it so thoroughly.

That truth was confirmed when Evelyn moved from theory to practice. Her every movement was smooth and unhurried, backed by experience and confidence.

First, she took out a sheet of wax paper and laid it flat on the steel surface of the workbench. Using a pen, she carefully etched the pre-designed circuit diagram onto the wax paper, full scale. Once satisfied, she used it as a guide to cut a piece from a larger 41-inch by 49-inch copper-clad board, trimming it precisely to match the diagram.

Next, she neatly affixed the wax paper to the copper board using double-sided tape. Then came the painting process.

Evelyn handed Ethan a chemical safety mask and asked him to wear it. She opened a container of paint, took out a bit of talcum powder, and mixed the two into a moderately viscous solution. Dipping a brush into the mixture, she demonstrated how to apply the paint in long, even strokes across the wax paper.

Since there was no particular technical challenge here, Ethan quickly got the hang of it. But something still puzzled him.

"Why do I have to brush it in just one direction?" he asked. "Wouldn't it be faster to go over it back and forth?"

"It's simple," Evelyn replied, her voice patient rather than condescending. "Brushing repeatedly in different directions can wrinkle the wax paper or even tear it. In factory production with plastic molds, sure, you can go wild. But when you're doing this by hand, you have to be precise. If any of the painted lines overlap or get smudged, it can ruin the board completely."

Learned something again, Ethan thought. He genuinely appreciated that she took the time to explain, even the small things.

Once the paint was applied, Evelyn had him place the board in a well-ventilated area to dry. Since the drying would take a while, they decided to take a short break and headed to the kitchen.

Ethan attempted an omelet sandwich, but misjudged the heat, burning one side. Not that it mattered.

At this moment, their minds were on one thing only: finishing the circuit board.

After their quick meal, they returned to the garage. The board had dried nicely, and now came one of the most critical steps—removing the unneeded copper.

This would involve a corrosive chemical to eat away the excess copper, leaving only the desired circuit behind. Evelyn handled this step herself.

Ethan watched as Evelyn carefully took out the potassium chlorate he had bought earlier. With a practiced hand, she weighed exactly one dram on an ounce scale, then measured out eight teaspoons of 15% hydrochloric acid. She mixed them together slowly and precisely.

Then, with great caution, she applied the solution to the circuit board.

The chemical mask she wore didn't look comfortable, but Ethan felt strangely reassured by her calm and steady movements.

During the process, Evelyn added, "There's actually a more... aggressive way to do this. Some people just mix up a ferric chloride solution—forty percent ferric chloride, sixty percent water—and dunk the whole board in it. It works faster, sure, but I don't like it. It's hard to control and the stuff ends up splashing everywhere."

Her honest admission made Ethan chuckle. "It's fine," he said. "The important thing is not to rush. We're not racing anyone."

Evelyn didn't respond. She simply focused in silence. Once she had corroded away the excess copper, she asked Ethan to bring over the rinsing water they had prepared.

He helped wash the board thoroughly, making sure there was no residue left behind. Then, Evelyn had him open the banana oil and gently wipe off the layer of paint still covering the circuit.

As Ethan followed her instructions, a pattern slowly emerged on the board: a shimmering copper circuit gleaming against a pale green background.

But the job wasn't finished yet. Next, Evelyn began punching holes into the board for the components. Meanwhile, under her guidance, Ethan carefully mixed rosin and acetone in a small beaker.

"This," she said, "is called flux. It removes oxides and grease from the copper, prevents re-oxidation, and increases the soldering area. It's crucial for a good weld."

She applied the flux with efficient strokes. A moment later, the garage filled with a wispy green smoke. The solder wire she used contained lead, and Evelyn remained in full protective gear as she worked.

Ethan could no longer see her face clearly through the mask and goggles, but sitting beside her, he could feel her focus.

Time passed.

How much, Ethan wasn't sure—until a faint exhale broke the silence.

"Is it done?" he asked in surprise. Glancing at the clock, he realized it was midnight. His eyes widened. "Thanks for all your hard work."

Evelyn straightened up and removed her gear. Her face appeared, flushed but smiling.

"Oh wow, Ethan. That's the first time you've ever said that to me," she teased. "You usually say, thank you, sis."

Ethan smiled sheepishly. "But," she continued, still grinning, "I like this version better. You used to say it just to be polite. This time, you actually meant it."

Then she held up the circuit board proudly. "To be honest, I haven't made many of these by hand. Not sure how clean the soldering is. Why don't you give it a try?"

Ethan's eyes lit up. He grab the small television they had used for yesterday's demonstration.

His eager expression made Evelyn laugh again, but she said nothing as she connected the board to the TV and switched it on.

The screen flickered—then filled with a cascade of static snow.

Evelyn frowned slightly, tapped the table once with her knuckles.

In its place, a black screen appeared, outlined with thin white lines.

At the center, a pixelated bar—no longer than half a finger—blinked into view. It stood still for three seconds.

Then, it began to move. Pixel by pixel, it crept to the right, completing the NTSC-standard horizontal journey across the screen. Roughly 300 pixels passed beneath it.

Then, it struck the white border. The screen jolted. Large blocky letters appeared in the center.

Game Over.

Note:

① According to the recollections of Apple co-founder Steve Wozniak, the process of making video games in the 1970s was strikingly similar to what's described above. Typically, it took about four days to a week to build a simple game from scratch. What people lacked at the time wasn't technology—they had the tools and hardware. What was missing was inspiration and a sense of what games could be.

② NTSC stands for the National Television System Committee of the United States. It defined the analog television broadcast standard used throughout North America during the 20th century, including specifications for video resolution, color encoding, and frame rate.