Burning the Page: The eBook revolution and the future of reading (6 page)

We have the founders of Napster to thank for the widespread adoption of digital music, and we have Netflix to thank for the adoption of digital video. But the future owes digital books to Jeff Bezos.

Jeff is a simple man. His front teeth are a bit chipped from when he grinds them together, and as the years passed, he seemed to grow thinner, his snazzy blue suit slowly engulfing him. What hair Jeff had when I first met him gradually disappeared entirely. He has a great laugh, an infectious laugh. It makes you smile, as all great laughs do. As Jeff stood in New York about to announce the Kindle to the world, I could only imagine what he must have been feeling.

This was the moment Jeff had been waiting for since 2004. As he said in his press event that day, “We did a number of things that make the experience of discovering new reading material, getting that material into your hands, and reading seem like magic.”

And he was right: it really was like magic. As magical as books themselves.

The sorcerers behind the magic of products like the Kindle are the product managers. If you’re lucky as a product manager, you’ll have the time to dream up new ideas, but if not, you’ll be handed ideas from other executives and told to figure out how to make them happen. Some product managers are more expert than others, more visionary. At Amazon, for example, the CEO was the ultimate product manager.

And although such product managers are possessed of genius, there are two other secrets to their success. For one, they’re poised like spiders in the centers of their webs of information, and they feed on this network of information. They know more than anyone else in their web and can use this information to further their own projects. Secondly, they have the enlightened autonomy to pursue their goals—something that can’t be done in politics or academia. These are enlightened capitalists for whom even their boards of directors and shareholders will often look the other way, trusting in their long-range plans and their long-range genius.

Three years earlier, Jeff had embarked on the tough challenge of inventing a new kind of book, a new kind of reading experience. But now, as we launched our first product, not only could we all finally read in public with our Kindles, since it was no longer a secret, but we also could introduce others to the joys of ebooks. We could change the lives of our customers by making reading more immediate and more featureful. We could continue innovating, using the original Kindle as a launch platform. We could continue adding improvements to a fundamental human experience, one that hadn’t changed in more than five hundred years. We were giving customers something they never asked for and delighting them with something at once strange, magical, and uplifting.

As for me, I could finally call my family and tell them what I was working on. For the last few years, I couldn’t say because Kindle was confidential, so my parents thought I was working for the FBI! I was excited and humbled. I rode the bus home and proudly read my Kindle and showed it off to everyone—although I was so exhausted that I don’t think I was able to read more than a page. I was temporarily relieved, but I knew that there’d be even harder work in the months and years ahead—not just for me or for Amazon, but for the billion-dollar book industry.

Improving the Kindle meant more than making better hardware, although I didn’t realize that immediately.

As a program manager, I got to fly into any building, any country, and do whatever it took to get my product shipped. A part of the job was making sure that people were on schedule, but another part was more punitive, requiring me to check out their dirty laundry. I had to be the eyes and ears of the Kindle executive team. And to do this, I had to know more about the Kindle than almost anyone except Jeff Bezos.

Being Kindle’s program manager let me see how decisions were made all across the Kindle organization. I participated in meetings with teams all over the globe, as well as with the vice presidents and Jeff in Seattle. I had an opportunity to see and influence what was happening with Kindle hardware and ebooks in this position, and by being with Kindle leaders, I learned a lot about Kindle and the Amazon business. I could see the personalities that shaped Kindle.

For a year and a half, I found myself flying to Silicon Valley every week, because Lab126 was where Kindle2 was being built.

The Kindle2 was an improvement in design compared to the original. It was lighter, and the eInk was crisper, with more shades of gray and more nuance. The device fit better into your hand while reading, and it had some cool features, like being able to read books out loud to you. It was also much cheaper, even though it had more features.

With Kindle2, almost everything was reinvented from scratch. Even things as seemingly insignificant as the box it shipped in.

The original Kindle package was a very maximalist presentation. It was designed to look like a hefty white book. You opened the book and found the Kindle inside, as well as its leatherette holder and a special sleeve for the power supply, all neatly arranged. On the outside of the package, and imprinted in rubber on the underside of the Kindle, you’d see a wonderful explosion of symbols, like someone had thrown a hand grenade into a type foundry.

But for the second Kindle, the package got reduced to a simple cardboard box with no markings at all on the outside, nothing to indicate there was a Kindle inside. And yet when you opened it, you’d find a beautiful Kindle sitting on a plastic tray, like a pearl in an oyster on the half shell. The packaging was simple and functional. In fact, with its nested layers of plastic, culminating in a strange dishlike tray, the Kindle2 packaging had all the aesthetic charm of a TV dinner.

Amazon moved from an ornate package design to a simple cardboard box that could be sent by UPS or FedEx and left on your porch without anyone knowing what was inside it, the same kind of box that could be stocked on the shelves at Best Buy or Target. It was practical, but soulless.

Although this packaging was more cost-effective, there was no artistry to it. I’m a big believer that industrial design is a sign of the times, and I’m not alone in this. Andy Warhol would look at department stores like they were museums. I love looking back at 1920s typewriter tins and 1930s talcum powder cans, industrial designs from eras when they still showed zeppelins and aeroplanes flying overhead as signs of their times.

If someone looks back a hundred years from now at our current industrial designs, they’ll perhaps see our culture as being obsessed with digging through layers of plastic and cardboard to get at the pricey prize inside. They’ll perhaps misjudge us and accuse us of not having any artistic inclinations. But they shouldn’t be too harsh on us just because the CEOs of our largest tech companies were frugal. Because inside these boxes were some of the most incredible devices in history.

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Almost everything improved with the next-generation Kindle. By the time we were finished, the Kindle2 was truly an incredible device, with features we were sure would amaze the next generation of ebook readers. But the way there was paved with endless reinventions and trials that left all of us sleepless and stressed. As the head of it all, as we moved ever closer to launch, I started to sense myself being pulled closer each day to a breaking point I had never felt before.

The day we finally launched Kindle2 was almost a sleepwalking dream for me. I remember Seattle being shut down by a snowstorm that day, and I remember how buses careened into one another. One slid off a bridge and into Puget Sound. Cars can’t drive up the steep Seattle hills in snow, so many were simply abandoned until the snow melted.

It was February 2009, a rough time to launch. I came in at 4:00 a.m. again and saw starlight again through holes in the clouds. After the launch, I was numb to news about the number of Kindles we sold. Twenty hours later, I climbed back into bed and slept for a week.

In fits of wakefulness, I thought about how Kindle lacked nuance, style, fonts, and things like multimedia. How great it would be if you could have a book about the history of music with actual musical excerpts! These seemed like great ideas to me, but I wondered if they were a bit too ambitious for Kindle. Because by now, Kindle’s success made new ideas paradoxically difficult, as if everyone was walking around on stiletto heels on a glass floor, careful not to run, not wanting to take the wrong risks.

I also realized that there was no outreach to the outside world—to publishers especially. I thought Kindle should have evangelists, like Guy Kawasaki once was for Apple, out there in the magazines and on the trade show floors talking about Kindle products. Not just as a paid shill, but as someone who used the products and believed in them with a fervor that approached religious fundamentalism. And that’s when the energy started to come back to me.

I realized that it was one thing to improve the Kindle as a device, but another thing entirely to improve the content. Over the last year and a half of effort, nothing had been done to differentiate the ebooks themselves. They were still the same as before. No worse, but no better.

The only category of books that I think the second-generation Kindle improved on was pornography, of all things. This is because the number of shades of gray on the Kindle2 doubled. Porn sells well in any format, whether magazine or book, but it sells especially well in ebook form. Amazon prefers not to sell pornography, but that doesn’t stop many users from buying it elsewhere and loading it onto their Kindles. With the Kindle, you could download pornography to your device and read it anywhere, even on a subway, without anyone guessing that you were not reading the latest bestseller. Digital books excel at protecting a reader’s privacy while he or she reads. And in this same sense of protecting privacy, digital books are the best thing that ever happened to pornography, with the possible exception of the brown paper bag.

The drawback with pornography is that images can look awful on eInk, no matter how much you dither with them. The original Kindle’s 2-bit eInk screens, for example, only had four shades of gray, and of these, one was white and one was black, which didn’t leave much for nuance. Whether you’re trying to render a picture of the sky or of a woman’s thigh, it’s hard to get pornography to look good with only four colors. Depending on your stance on pornography, that’s either something wrong with eInk or something you’re glad e-readers don’t do well. Even with the Kindle2’s sixteen colors, digital pornography still sucked, although it did improve somewhat.

Clearly, there was potential for improvements in content beyond pornography. There was a whole universe of books to adapt to e-reading—including atlases, dictionaries, comics, travel guides, and textbooks!

Shortly after the Kindle2 launch, I talked to Kindle’s senior management and then took on the role of Kindle’s technology evangelist. I would be half evangelist and half product manager and focus on ebooks alone. A product manager is something like a practical futurist, someone who can think nine months into the future and see a product through from inception to launch. I would be able to dream big and make long-range improvements.

I was refreshed and revitalized, ready for a new chapter of my life at Amazon. I was on a plane every week as Amazon’s first technology evangelist. I would meet with publishers in their midtown Manhattan offices to explore new ebook ideas together. Then I’d be off to India or the Philippines to see how conversion houses were making ebooks and to tell them some of what I’d learned during my time at Amazon, feeding them bits of information that would make them work better and faster and cheaper for us. I was doing my small part with each player in this ebook ecosystem to move it forward and to find ways that publishers could spend less and convert more, so readers could have more ebooks to enjoy.

I saw colossal, warehouse-sized machines that stripped books of their spines in seconds, like wood chippers for books, but that were as precise as a doctor’s scalpel. At a technology park in India, I also saw an experimental array of quarter-million-dollar machines that were like animatronic spiders. They were used for nondestructive scanning, the high-end way to digitize content—unlike the cheaper method of hacking pages with machetes. The machine lifted a book and carefully turned its pages one by one so they could be photographed and digitized. Those animatronic spiders were so delicate that I would have trusted them to hold a baby and change its diaper.

Being an evangelist gave me a chance to engage with publishers worldwide, and I got to see the scramble firsthand as publishers adjusted to digital books. Some publishers reacted better than others; some, in fact, were downright revolutionary.

Ultimately, I think everyone who worked in those early years of ebooks was changed by the experience. We weren’t working just for paychecks. We were learning and growing. We changed from one month to the next, sort of like taking a paintbrush and a bucket of water and drawing your self-portrait on a hot sidewalk. You’d maybe be able to sketch half of your face before the water you’d already painted would start to fade and evaporate, so you’d never quite be finished.

We’re all sidewalk portraits painted with water on a hot summer’s afternoon. And there’s a holy fervor and zeal than you can see in the eyes of the ebook revolutionaries who are working as insiders, whether they work at the publishers or the retailers or as independent software vendors and sideline pundits. It would be one thing perhaps if we were merely part of the MP3 or digital video revolution or part of TV in its early test-pattern era. But (and you know this already) there’s something sacred about books. They’re humanity’s lifeblood, these inky words and smudges that make their way into our minds. Ultimately, books are a small but essential part of the human condition. They are tapestries of birdsong, magic, and intrigue, in equal parts.

As an evangelist, I was interacting with publishers and ebook revolutionaries outside of Amazon. I was moving the ebook revolution forward by improving ebook content. I was venturing beyond Amazon’s walled garden to plant seeds like a Johnny Appleseed for ebooks, never quite certain how these seeds would grow but certain they needed to be planted. And then those seeds would grow and bear fruit that would find its way back to Amazon and to the Kindles and ebooks I loved. This new role was a first for me and for Amazon, with its highly secretive culture. For Amazon, this move was revolutionary.