TIM PATERSON NEEDED SOMETHING QUICK and dirty. Seattle Computer Products, where Paterson worked as a designer and engineer, needed an operating system to put Intel's new 16-bit 8086 processor through its paces. If processors can be considered the brain of a machine, the OS is its heart, sending and receiving information to hardware that powers software users want to run. Rather than design an OS from scratch, he harvested organs from CP/M, or Control Program for Microcomputers, an 8-bit OS written by Digital Research's Gary Kildall in 1975 and the first system to see widespread use on desktop computers (known as microcomputers in the 1970s and '80s).
Paterson completed his project in six weeks and called it QDOS, short for Quick and Dirty Operating System. It worked differently enough for Seattle Computer Products to sell it under the name 86-DOS, signifying its compatibility with the 8086 chip. However, Paterson designed QDOS as an 8-bit OS to ensure compatibility with popular 8-bit software such as WordStar and dBase.
In 1980, IBM designed a computer with off-the-shelf parts including Intel's 8086/8088 processors, it searched for a compatible OS. The company had already signed a contract with Bill Gates and Paul Allen for Microsoft to develop a dialect of BASIC, so their engineers approached the whiz kids about building an operating system. After rattling off a few ideas, Gates spoke the magic words: He could build an OS for IBM. Microsoft signed another contract in November 1980. Without an operating system, Gates reached out to Paterson and purchased 86-DOS for one payment of $50,000 the following July. Both parties conducted the deal under the radar to avoid detection from Seattle Computer Products.
Microsoft Disk Operating System, or MS-DOS, became the newest branch on a family tree that included QDOS, 86-DOS, and CP/M, when it launched with the IBM Personal Computer in August 1981. The operating system worked flawlessly with the 16-bit architecture IBM had placed under the hood. IBM sold its PC in droves, and Microsoft shared in royalties thanks to bundling MS-DOS with each machine.
Better still, Gates had persuaded IBM to let Microsoft keep marketing rights for its OS separately from the IBM PC. Per that agreement, Microsoft could market MS-DOS as a standalone product. The company's profits soared as IBM PCs flew off shelves. When Tandy, Hewlett-Packard, and other manufacturers built "clones" of IBM PC using non-proprietary components, Microsoft hammered out contracts to include MS-DOS. The more prolific the operating system became, the more software publishers made sure their programs ran on MS-DOS.
Not all personal computers ran MS-DOS. Apple and Commodore machines ran OSes incompatible with Microsoft's operating system. While IBM planted its flag in offices, Apple targeted schools by creating programs that placed Apple II and Macintosh computers in classrooms along with educational software from MECC (Minnesota Educational Computing Consortium) such as The Oregon Trail.
By the early '90s, however, MS-DOS had cemented itself as the dominant system for personal computer manufacturers and software developers, a market dominance maintained by updates through 1997. The platform became so ubiquitous that users referred to it as "DOS" even though other permutations existed, and its ubiquity enticed game studios such as Electronic Arts and Activision, and developers such as id Software's John Carmack. By the late '90s, thousands of games ran on Microsoft's juggernaut.
MS-DOS affected more than Microsoft's bottom line. Within the studio, it shaped culture. "I don't want to say we didn't have a good sales team, because there were good salespeople," says Robbie Bach, who had earned an MBA from Stamford before joining Microsoft's Paris division to head marketing efforts on Microsoft Office for Mac and Microsoft Flight Simulator. "But marketing-wise, it was pretty thin when I started. That's why they'd started hiring MBAs. They made a commitment to deepen the bench for all the business, marketing, and management space. It's not like there weren't business-minded people, because there were. Jon Shirley was president of the company, and he came from Radio Shack for crying out loud. But the company was a technology place, and most of our products were technologies looking for usages."
ALEX ST. JOHN was a tech guy looking for a usage. He played early computer games on Commodore 64 and taught himself how to program so he could explore his interest in games and, as technology advanced, 3D graphics. "I was always fascinated with graphics, being an engineer-mathematician-3D guy," St. John told me in a previous interview. "My interest in three-dimensional mathematics, rendering, and physics led me into a publishing and two-dimensional graphics career."
St. John landed a job programming clones of the language Adobe had fashioned for its products. His growing knowledge of printing and publishing led to opportunities to write columns about the industry. While working from home as a freelancer in 1992, St. John answered a cold call from one of Microsoft's recruiters. "We've got a job we want to hire you fire," the recruiter said.
"I don't really want to work on the west coast," St. John responded. The recruiter asked if he'd hear him out, so St. John listened.
"Bill Gates had created a position for a strategist, for someone who really understands the technology," St. John said. At the time, I didn't know such positions existed. They were looking for people who were very articulate and strategic in their thinking. They primarily hired kids who weren't very experienced because they wanted to shape them in their own image."
St. John declined again, but Microsoft's recruiters persisted until near the holidays when one asked him if he'd ever been to Washington. St. John admitted he had not. "It's beautiful," the recruiter said, "and Microsoft has an incredible Christmas party. Why don't we just fly you out for a weekend vacation? You can come to the Christmas party, stay in a nice hotel, tour the area. All you have to do is an interview. We'll ask you some questions, we'll cover the expenses."
A free trip to Seattle sounded fun, so after talking it over with his wife, St. John packed his bags and headed west in December 1992. Following an 11-hour interview, St. John, exhausted, got the job. He was certain he had misheard. He had no formal education and had spoken bluntly of his preference for Apple's elegant Mac OSX platform. Windows, he said, was ugly and clunky.
Yet the manager seemed serious. "I don't even understand what I've been interviewing for," St. John said.
"You'll be an evangelist."
"What's that?" St. John asked.
"Your job is to promote Microsoft's publishing strategy to developers."
Likely expecting a more enthusiastic response, the recruiter was probably taken aback when St. John shot back, "But your publishing strategy sucks. It's a disaster. That would be embarrassing."
"Well," the manager said, "you would be in a position to influence that."
"So you want me to work the publishing gauntlet?" St. John said.
"No. It's not running it. That's other people. You'd be in a position to influence it."
St. John left the marathon interview session with a job, albeit one he failed to wrap his head around. But Seattle seemed nice and the Christmas party was everything the recruiters had hyped it to be, so he embraced his newfound employment. "I thought, Any company that throws this kind of party, you have to know what it's like to work for them," he said.
A month in, St. John still failed to grasp what he was supposed to do until a manager asked him to write a strategy for how he, St. John, would persuade the publishing industry to migrate from Mac to Windows. He wrote a series of article outlining strategies to keep clients and ways to woo new ones. An executive read through it and said, "This is all great stuff, you have a perfect plan. Developers who are reasonable should all support it, but what do you do if none of this works?"
"What do you mean?" St. John asked.
"What if in spite of your best efforts, your best arguments, you best relationships, you can't get them to support them? How do you force the industry to support Microsoft anyway?"
"Force them?" St. John repeated, certain he'd misheard. "Well, I don't know."
The executive told him to come up with an answer. He remained stumped until zeroed in on the subtext of the executive's words. "I realized that a major part of my job was to figure out how to use technology control to create economic force, or leverage, such that money and business flowed in Microsoft's direction, and people had to go to them," St. John recalled. "That, ultimately, is when I became a 'Microsoft guy,' when I got that concept."
St. John received further education in evangelism from other Microsoft vets. One manager drew eyes by wearing neon coats every day. When anyone asked him a question, he came back with an answer. "No matter how complex or broad the question, he seemed to have an answer for everything right off the cusp," St. John remembered. "He'd go to meetings with people, and they'd ask him all sorts of questions: sales, business, economic, technology, and he just seemed to know the answers."
At first, St. John panicked. He didn't have years to learn the intricacies of Microsoft software and policies. Then he had another epiphany. "It took me a long time to realize that most of the time he was pulling stuff out of his ass," St. John continued. "He had enormous credibility with people because he'd come in and say whatever was needed in order to get support for a platform. You see, in order to get momentum for a platform, one percent of key people need to adopt; the other 99 percent end up getting towed along. He would find the one percent and work with them."
St. John had to learn one key lesson of being a "Microsoft guy" the hard way. Three months into his job as a publishing strategist, a reporter from a popular tech magazine called and asked the division manager for comments on Windows 95's support for publishing. The manager saw an opportunity for the new guy to get his feet wet touting Microsoft's products and connected the reporter to St. John's line. When asked for his thoughts on publishing on Windows versus Apple's Mac OSX platform, St. John held nothing back.
"I said, 'Yeah, printing in Windows 95 doesn't work so good, we're going to fix it, we're going to have some dramatic enhancements.' And they asked, 'How does it compare to Apple's?' I responded, 'Clearly, in the case of Windows 3.1, it's not as good,'" St. John recalled.
The front page of the magazine's next issue sealed St. John's fate: MICROSOFT EXECUTIVE ALEX ST. John SAYS MAC IS SUPERIOR PUBLISHING PLATFORM TO WINDOWS. St. John hurried to his office and checked his email. A message from Bill Gates waited in his inbox. The boss of bosses chewed him out, asking who the hell had given him authority to talk rather than direct the inquiry to the public relations department. Further, Gates continued in his email, St. John did not know what he was talking about; Windows was superior to Mac for publishing in every way.
St. John's boss, who had connected him to the reporter, slunk into his office. "Sorry, kid," he said, ashen-faced, "I may have gotten you fired."
Devastated, St. John took a long walk around Microsoft's campus. He could return to the publishing industry. As he walked, his thoughts shifted. What the hell does Gates mean I don't know what I'm talking about? he fumed. Does he actually believe that?
By the time he returned to his desk, he had reached a decision. If he was fired anyway, he would set the record straight before packing up his desk. He clicked Reply on Gates's email and wrote back. "I responded, 'Hey, I'm sorry I let you down, I shouldn't have talked to the press, but what the hell are you talking about? Your OS is completely fucked for printing, and whoever told you otherwise pulled the wool over on you, Bill.' I hit Send. I mean I'm fired anyway, so what the hell?"
Unbeknownst to St. John, Gates printed out the email and marched into a meeting with his executives where he tore into them over the new kid, disputing everything they had told him about Microsoft's prowess in publishing. The interviews took their beating then fell on St. John, castigating him for going to Gates and ripping into him over his criticisms of Windows's publishing architecture. St. John, still under the assumption he was as good as fired, pushed back: "I said, 'What the fuck are you talking about? That's horseshit.' I got into it with so many executives, saying 'What are you doing, embarrassing us in front of Bill like this?' and I just said, 'I don't care, I'm gone, I know I'm gone, so here's how it is.'"
Contrary to being fired, St. John was given carte blanche to attend meetings related to publishing on Windows and tell the executives what he thought was broken. Instead of lighting into him, they asked how they should go about fixing it. Getting into a groove as an evangelist, St. John approached companies such as Adobe and cajoled them into bringing their publishing software over to Windows 95.
During his first year, he'd gone from a naive kid clueless about evangelism to someone Bill Gates trusted to speak truth, even (especially) when Gates didn't want to hear it. "I think I get a lot of more willingness to go over the edge from that first realization that if you're outspoken, stand your ground," St. John said. "That's a fairly successful way to get things done at Microsoft. And that's one of the great things about the Microsoft culture: Very hard on the nervous system, but it worked. If I wouldn't have had that experience, I probably never would have acquired the courage to deal with some of the challenges I faced with DirectX at a senior level."
