![]() ![]() He had previously worked in the hard, fast and serious world of gambling. He’d only just joined Mojang, coming straight in to lead the studio. He was at a Minecraft convention in Orlando Florida four years ago when he realised there was more to all this than just a game. I’m thinking about this while sitting in a meeting room in the cluttered Mojang office, chatting to the company’s CEO, Jonas Mårtensson. View image in fullscreen Gentlemen’s club … Jens Bergensten, left, and Jonas Mårtensson Photograph: Michael Campanella/Getty/The Guardian ![]() There’s no story, no mission, just you and a world of possibilities. A bed, for example, requires you to combine wood and wool, while a longbow is made from a stick and some string. To play Minecraft you need to collect certain resources. The game was not only bringing people together – it was teaching basic skills. I was inundated with tweets, emails and comments from other parents. It was a revelation.Īfter writing an article about our experiences with Minecraft and autism in early 2015, I soon found out I wasn’t alone. He’d gone from grunted responses, one or two words, to lively tales of zombies, naughty pigs and wildly ambitious building projects. For the next two years, I think every single conversation he started was about Minecraft, but we didn’t care. ![]() More importantly, for the first time in his life, he was talking to us about what he was doing. But before long, with his younger brother, Albie, he was making houses, then mansions, then giant, sprawling castles. He started to experiment, chopping down a few trees, digging a shallow quarry – the usual beginner stuff. Zac had always loved technology, though, learning to use an iPad before he could walk. Although he enjoyed being read and spoken to, he didn’t say much back. His vocabulary was limited and he had little patience for painting or drawing. He’d just been diagnosed on the autism spectrum and I knew that we’d need to find new ways to communicate with him. As soon as I saw the blocky landscape load up and heard the soothing piano soundtrack trickle out, I knew someone who would like it: my eldest son, Zac. ![]() As games editor for the Guardian, I’d heard of it, but somehow hadn’t got round to playing it. Minecraft arrived in my household in 2012. View image in fullscreen Master builders … a Minecraft temple. In short, they wanted the office to be like Minecraft. The aim was to make a nice place to hang out, meet people and have fun – an environment that felt personal. They even designed a Mojang coat of arms, which hangs near an enormous banqueting table. In came Chesterfield sofas, a snooker table and lots of dark oak furniture. Five years ago, when makers Mojang moved to this first-floor office in the trendy area of Södermalm, they wanted it to have the feel of a gentlemen’s club. To truly understand the appeal of Minecraft, you need to understand the studio behind it. And the chances are you’ve asked yourself: why? If you have children aged between six and 16, the chances are they’re hooked on this strange, blocky pursuit. This is where they make what many regard as a digital version of Lego: a game that’s been downloaded more than 100m times on PCs, consoles and smartphones since its launch in 2009. The truth only becomes clear when you step through the door and discover the endless shelves filled with awards (including a Bafta) and the vast boxes of Minecraft merchandise piled in every corner. You wouldn’t know, turning into this nondescript street in Stockholm and padding up the stone steps to Minecraft HQ, that anything special was being made up here. ![]()
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