Let me tell you a story.

It began a long, long time ago — at the very dawn of our species.

Colored pebbles were resting on wet dirt etched with seemingly accidental, mysterious lines.

Warmed by primeval fire, a couple of ancient humans, moving the small rocks around, according to some imaginary rules.

Playing the first game.

Humanity’s first journey into virtual worlds happened in our very minds, as soon as we could speak. The ability to exchange information enabled us to visit the worlds that never were.

It enabled us to dream — together.

Civilizations rose and fell, history unfolded its pages, and all the while, we continued gaming.

The 20th century came, with all of its plagues and wonders. One of them — computing technology—gave us almost god-like powers.

It enabled us to create universes.

The dawn of the video game era came with two covenants—one of ownership, and one of freedom.

Developers had absolute creative freedom when inventing digital realms; gamers could own a tangible, physical copy of the game.

In the last few decades, the rise of Internet changed that. The initial promises of freedom and ownership became corrupted.

Rising costs of game development and new models of digital distribution drove a majority studios toward predatory monetization methods.

At Enjin, we silently watched this… Beautiful, primeval, core human activity slowly sail towards an endless stream of meaningless, empty experiences.

One day, we decided it was time to turn the tide.

Our answer came in the form of a technological spear, meticulously designed to obliterate the corrupt structures that stood in the way of creating fair and purposeful virtual worlds.

That stood in the way of what our species was free to do for aeons.

The digital lance was born of an ancient human need — one for unbound freedom and true ownership.

More often than not, the things we value the most are not physical in any sense—joy, love, honor, honesty, memories, and even purely virtual things, from movies and music tracks to photographs we’ve taken and gaming items we’ve bought or earned.

The birth of the Enjin ecosystem was inevitable.

It is the final, purposeful block in a long evolutionary chain that started with the first game, played with colored pebbles on dirt.

It was created to enable genuine, real ownership of virtual objects we value the most — with the economic foundation of the entire framework ensuring that those objects have (and retain) tangible, real-world value.

We made virtual assets real.

Gaming is losing its way, and we intend to set it back on course.

Now, game developers can fuel their digital art with unshackled creativity and unite with gamers under the rebellious banner of true ownership.

Emergence is a funny thing.

We didn’t know this when we started our blockchain odyssey, but ENJ also opened the possibility to create something almost magical — virtual realms that can be bound to each other, connected by blocks and chains.

A gaming multiverse.

We ignited a digital Big Bang, forging the first multiverse items from the cryptographic substrate known as ENJ.

Some time later, studios from all around the world banded together to create the primordial, interlinked virtual realms.

All the while, we knew that multiverse items are not enough — there had to be a story, too.

The multiverse needs its lore, independent of any singular game.

A complex, beautiful meta-narrative that can bind the virtual realms and galvanize millions of gamers to venture into all of them.

There needs to be a main quest.

There has to be a story.

Here’s how it begins — with a comic.