This is an excerpt from my forthcoming book, From Atoms to Bits: The Future of Downloadable Attractions. In the first section of the book, I unpack many of the lessons I learned as I built Laser Storm from a bootstrapped startup to one of the fastest-growing companies in America. Many of those lessons still apply today.

In the early ’90s, I was trying to will Laser Storm into existence with almost no capital, a tiny but committed team, and a stubborn belief that we were building the future of entertainment. After a launch that left us nearly broke, we made one last, reckless bet on IAAPA in Dallas, dragging a hand-built arena across the country and assembling it under impossible conditions. When the show started, and people lined up to play, it was like the universe was signaling we’d survive after all. Then, in front of a crowd, the structure failed, the arena collapsed, and in a single, humiliating moment, it felt like Laser Storm — and everything I’d poured into it — died right there on the trade show floor. If you missed it, here’s the full accounting of that story.

As we stood there, staring at the rubble, and thousands of people streamed by entering the convention center, I could not believe what had just happened. It was surreal, like one of those dreams that you swear is real, but can’t be. What I saw in front of me made no sense. We’d worked our asses off, spent every penny we had left to get here, and now all I saw was a pile of extruded aluminum.

The emotions of that moment were complex. There was relief that nobody was hurt. There was embarrassment. But I think the overwhelming feeling was one of defeat. We spent every last penny we had to get here. Laser Storm was dead, and with it went the last three years of my life.

The team went to retrieve the truck so we could pack up the parts of our former business and drive back to Colorado. While I was waiting for the truck, I trudged inside to find my friend, Michael Getlan, let him know what had happened, and say goodbye.

“You look like someone died,” he said. I told him what happened, tears welling in my eyes. That’s when Michael did the most extraordinary thing. He channeled Knute Rockney, the legendary Notre Dame football coach, and gave me one of the most inspiring talks I’ve ever heard. I don’t remember anything he said to be honest. But whatever it was, it filled me with hope and adrenaline. 

I ran back outside to find the team loading the truck with the broken down booth. I yelled for them to stop. They looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was. 

“Let’s dig through and see what we can salvage. Maybe we can put it back together. There are 3 more days of the trade show left. Let’s make the most of it.” 

We rallied for another all-nighter. As people left the show for the day, they cheered us on. “Go Laser Storm!” They’ll never know how much their encouragement meant to us. 

We were able to save a third of the structure, enough to make a 10x20’ showcase. On one side, you could shoot a laser gun at a target, and the scoreboard would tally. In the other, we hung the belts, guns, and headsets to showcase the equipment. It wasn’t what we envisioned, but it was better than going home with our tails between our legs. We finished at about 10 PM. We wrapped it up in the tarp and headed to Waffle House for our nightly feast of steak, eggs, and scattered, smothered, and covered (IYKYK).

The next morning came too soon. I got up around 7 AM and went to the windows to pull back the curtain and let some light in. 

“Shit. Guys, it’s pouring rain out.” 

After a minute, I decided it would be OK. The tarp covered the whole booth, and it’s really securely attached to the structure. I tried to be positive, but I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. If the rain continued, we’d lose the day, because the outside space we had was totally exposed. 

We got dressed as fast as we could and piled into the car. As we drove to the convention center, the rain was slowing, and the sky was lightening. I was feeling a bit better. Maybe the weather would turn. We certainly could use a break. As we rounded the corner into the parking lot, I craned my neck to see the booth, looking for the blue tarp. But I couldn’t quite view it from this angle. We parked, I jumped out of the car, and ran up the stairs to survey the situation. 

That sinking feeling turned into a titanic-scale gut-wrenching. The reason I could not see the tarp from the parking lot was that what was left of our booth structure lay in shambles on the ground. Huge puddles of water had gathered on the tarp, which barely covered half of the pieces of our booth. It looked like a tornado had just ripped everything apart. 

We just stood there, staring at the damage and wondering aloud how it had happened. Not that it mattered. It was just our way of distracting ourselves from the reality of the situation. Someone suggested, “The tarp must have acted like a sail, and a gust of wind picked it up and slammed it against the wall.” 

“FUCK!”

At this point, I started laughing. What are you gonna do? I’d already been through such a roller coaster of emotion (it was a theme park show after all), so I was emotionally numb at that point. I asked the team to once again see what they could salvage, and I went inside to find show management. 

I told the woman from IAAPA my story. At this point, we were the underdog, the little laser tag company that just would not give up. People were whispering about us in the hallways. I asked if they had anything available inside that we could move into. They had a couple of no-shows with 10x10-foot spaces. But we could not set up during show hours. We would have to wait until 6 PM, when the show ended, and then work overnight. Again. 

We salvaged enough to make a 6x6-foot structure, about 6% of the original size. It was like standing in a phone booth and shooting a laser gun. It was the lamest laser tag trade show booth ever. To make it worse, we could not test the electronics because they shut off the power at the end of the show each day. Everything was soaking wet from the rain, so we hoped for the best, like that had been working for us so far, and made it to Waffle House at about 2 AM. 

Day three, and the sun was shining. Not that it mattered now, because our booth was in the basement. We got an early start to test all the electronics. Unfortunately, the power supply that ran everything was fried. Dennis took the minivan to look for a replacement. Meanwhile, the rest of us tapdanced and told the story of how we wound up in a tiny booth in the basement of the convention center. Dennis made it back around 1 PM with a new power supply, and Laser Storm was back in business, trying to salvage the show with about a day and a half to go. 

We met lots of people and collected a stack of business cards. Most of the conversations were educating people about the concept of laser tag. Some who had seen us last year or had done their research wanted to know how we were different from Q-Zar, the other company that launched the year before at IAAPA Orlando. But one conversation stood out from the others. 

Harold Skripsky owned a family entertainment center in the Chicago suburbs. He was expanding into the vacant space next to him in the shopping center and was looking for attractions. He was very close to buying a laser tag system and was leaning towards Q-Zar. He wanted to attract a teenage audience and felt Laser Storm was too basic, better suited to younger kids.

I asked him to come to Denver, Colorado, to see our location at Fun Plex, which had a reputation as being one of the best FECs in the country. I knew if he saw Laser Storm in action, he’d see how it could work for him and save him a couple of hundred thousand dollars in the process. But then he posed the weirdest question I’ve ever heard at a trade show. 

“Do you ever go gold panning? I’ve always wanted to try it.”  

Now I really wanted this guy to come to Denver. I was convinced that if I could get him there and show him our business, and spend some quality time together, I could convince him to go with us. So I did what every desperate entrepreneur would do in that situation. 

“Of course! If you come to Denver, we can go up into the mountains and do some gold panning. I’ll pick you up at the airport in my Jeep, and we can head up for a couple of days.”

We shook on it, and he said he’d be in touch. 

I knew absolutely nothing about gold panning. But how hard could it be? Colorado had a long history of mining, and I spent my first years there living in mountain towns. I was relatively confident I could pull this off. I had no choice; this was definitely the best lead of the show. Most others were just starting their consideration process. But Harold was ready to buy. 

Over the next few months, we mined the leads we collected at IAAPA to keep ourselves alive until the following summer. Interest in laser tag kept growing, and we sold each month enough to keep the lights on. Then one day, as spring was about to turn to summer, Harold rang. 

“Bobby! You ready to go gold panning?”

Shit. I’d kind of forgotten about that. 

“Sure, Harold, I responded, when are you coming?”  I was hoping he’d say July or August, so I’d have a chance to figure out how to actually pan for gold.

“Can you pick me up on Sunday?” Shit…

Stay tuned for the final chapter in two weeks, or join my Book Writing Space on LEXRA and get access to the rest of the story now.

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