Since we were on this colored box kick, we were directed to fit the hardware controller into a box of the same size as was used for the black, gray, and red boxes. This time it was blue. Fitting all this circuitry into the box was pretty difficult to do, since all the chips came in DIP (Dual Inline Package) packages at that time, and we also had to use ½ watt resistors everywhere, since this was the Seeburg standard. When the project was cancelled, there were a lot of blue boxes left in inventory, so they ended up being used for the red box (DCT1) and MCU (DMT1) translators.
For the control software, the idea was to put all of the control code into a single ROM, which would be contained within the blue box. This ROM would contain all the various subroutines needed to run the game, count coins, control displays, lamps, and solenoids, etc. Game-specific code (award 100 points for this spinner and move a lamp along a sequence as a result, etc., basically a pinball interpretive language or rules code) would be programmed into a smaller ‘game personality’ PROM, which would be mounted on a programmer board similar to (but significantly bigger than) the black box pricing programmer board, which would plug into the back of the blue box. The consultant wrote all of the ROM code, and he and I developed the interpreter codes. By using two different games, we thought we could cover most, if not all, possible situations that could occur in pinball rules (pretty naïve thinking, as I look back on it). Using this technique, Seeburg could continuously build the same box, which would be used for all games by merely changing the game personality board. That this approach does not work is evidenced by the fact that none of the major pinball manufacturers ever used it. These were the days prior to the introduction of the Personal Computer. But we needed computer to enter code into and have it do our software assemblies. There was no way the bean counters were going to give Engineering access to their mainframe computer, so we had to rent time on another computer, communicating via dial-up modem. This meant that whenever the consultant made a change to the code, he had to type it into his source code (stored on the Marquette University computer) using a telephone modem. The modems of today plugged into a PC were unknown. We had a teletype machine with a paper tape punch and reader, and an acoustic coupler. When you wanted to make a change, you dialed up the computer, put the telephone handset into the coupler, and started typing away on the teletype machine. After an hour or so, the computer finished the code assembly, after which we downloaded the assembled code, and saved it on punched paper tape. Luckily, I had become an expert at winding these tapes so that it would not snag, a trick I had learned while helping out in the radio shack during off hours on the ship on which I served while in the Navy. After all this, we could load it up into an Emulation platform we bought from National and run it. Once we were happy with the code, we would make a set of PROMs and play it.
My supervisor designed the actual lamp and solenoid driver circuitry. He hit upon the idea of designing a pair of small driver boards, one for each device type. The driver board would then be mounted under the playfield, close to the device it was driving. He also came up with variations having two or three of each driver type on a single PC board, used in areas of the playfield where there were a lot of lamps or solenoids in the same immediate area. This approach worked well, in that it was obvious which circuitry was driving a given lamp or solenoid, but greatly added to the wiring congestion under the playfield, since each board had to have a control signal, +5 volts power, Ground, and driven signal out connection. This was especially cumbersome for lamps; since we had not hit upon the idea of time-division multiplexing the lamps as was done in the Bally and (later) Williams’ hardware systems. This meant that there were a lot of wires going between the playfield and the blue box (one each per lamp and solenoid). The driver board scheme would probably have been popular with the game mechanics, since they could carry several replacement boards in their pocket.
By far the biggest problem we had with this system was the display drivers. The Bally system used gas-discharge digital displays to replace the old score reels. Their display boards used a lot of transistor level-shifters and drivers, since the displays needed a power supply of around +190 VDC. We thought we could do it cheaper by using a pair of chips recently introduced by Signetics (which would later become part of Philips Semiconductor). One chip was used as a digit driver, while the other was used to drive the segments. We had all kinds of problems with these chips, which were advertised as being a glue-less (i.e., no components in-between) connection to TTL logic. They were very temperamental, and would self-destruct if you looked at them sideways. We ended up re-designing their PC boards several times, adding isolation diodes, resistors, etc. Finally, as I recall, Signetics gave up and removed them from the market.
Eventually, the consultant and I had both machines working fairly well, except those troublesome display boards. About this time, a new vice-president was hired at Seeburg/Williams. The word we got was that he was to examine the corporation from a technology point of view, and make recommendations for making improvements. This proved to be a stepping-stone position for him, as he later became president of Williams. Prior to doing so, he discovered that I had never signed a patent agreement with Seeburg, and demanded I do so. I was a pretty headstrong engineer in those days, thinking that I was just a week or so away from an idea that would make me an instant millionaire. All these years later, I’m still just a week or so away. I looked at the standard agreement, and refused to sign it, since it was entirely one-sided in favor of Seeburg. Basically, by accepting continued employment at Seeburg I was willing to relinquish all rights I had to anything I came up with, whether or not it had anything to do with Seeburg’s line of business, and whether or not I came up with the idea on Seeburg’s time or my own. Nowadays, such an agreement is clearly un-enforceable, especially in the state of California (where I now live), but it was standard practice back then. I really enjoyed working at Seeburg, and didn’t want to leave, but I also didn’t want to give up any patent rights to anything I independently came up with, so I had a lawyer friend of mine start with their agreement, and come up with something a little more equitable for both sides. This was done at my expense. I had a lot of support from my boss and the Vice President of QA in this matter, who tried to negotiate a mutually-agreeable settlement between management and myself. Evidently, both thought I was a valuable employee and didn’t want to lose me. I submitted the revised agreement to the new ‘VP of Technology’ who basically said ‘sign the standard agreement or leave’. So I left Seeburg for the second time. The VP of QA and the entire Engineering Department came to my going-away luncheon, which was held at the famous Golden Ox restaurant, just around the corner from Seeburg’s main plant. I went to the last Seeburg reunion held, which was in 1996 in Chicago. While in town, I had a chance to visit the old plant and had lunch at the Golden Ox. I went down into the basement party room where they held my going-away party back in January of 1977. Off in the corner of the room was an STD2 Entertainer, with the lamps blinking merrily away.
Click here to go to the next installment.
class="F4 Bold FontArial Black"