Ready-player-one

I placed it on the pedestal.

And then I saw it. Halliday had once written in his journal: "The greatest enemy is the part of you that refuses to let go."

I went to the Third Gate: a perfect replica of Halliday's childhood bedroom in Middletown, Ohio. The gate wasn't locked by a riddle. It was locked by regret. I had to play a perfect game of Tempest —Halliday's favorite—while watching a hologram of his younger self crying over a lost friendship with his partner, Ogden Morrow. ready-player-one

But I'd studied Halliday's journal. Every movie, every song, every Zork command he'd ever loved.

She laughed. "You're insane."

"No," I said, looking at the cracked screen of my window. "I'm just playing for the other side now."

I called Art3mis. Her real name was Samantha. She lived in Canada. She picked up on the first ring. I placed it on the pedestal

But my bank account now had $240 billion in it. And more importantly—I had a list. Every player who'd fought beside me. Every gunter who'd bled pixels.

Not a monster. Not a puzzle.

But Halliday loved absurdity.

Innovative Online Industries. The Sixers. An army of indentured servants wearing identical armor, funded by corporate greed. Their CEO, Nolan Sorrento, wanted the OASIS so he could stuff it with ads and microtransactions. The gate wasn't locked by a riddle