With a near-monopoly on the hardware, Huang is arguably the most powerful person in AI. Certainly, he’s made more money from it than anyone else. In the strike-it-rich tradition, he most closely resembles California’s first millionaire, Samuel Brannan, the celebrated vendor of prospecting supplies who lived in San Francisco in 1849. Except rather than shovels, Huang sells $30,000 AI-training chips that contain one hundred billion transistors. The wait time to purchase his latest hardware is currently more than a year, and on the Chinese black market, his chips sell for double the price.

Disruptive technologies, Christensen had observed, often grew out of hobbyist communities. They were developed using “bootlegged resources” in which “off-the-shelf components” were redeployed for something other than their intended purpose. They started out wonky but rapidly improved along attributes of performance that established players ignored.

But even once you had absorbed this lesson, it wasn’t easy to implement. Pursuing niche markets cost profits, making investors question your sanity. This, too, Christensen had foretold: “One of the reasons managers at established firms find it difficult to serve emerging markets is that their investors and customers tell them not to.”

That was the real secret of The Innovator’s Dilemma, which readers often missed. It was not a book about how to succeed; it was a book about how not to fail. Christensen’s book wasn’t a how-to for start-ups but a counterinsurgency manual for senior managers at stagnating firms. Thirteen years in, Huang felt that Nvidia was at risk of becoming such a firm, and it was as much paranoia as optimism that led him to pursue the mad-science market.

Firms that attempted to replicate GPT with in-house data often produced shambolic “knowledge engines” that were little better than toys. These AIs supplemented the standard large-language-model training set with emails, mission statements, patent applications, legal memoranda, and other exciting selections from the internal corporate syllabus. As the buzz percolated through middle management, executives at marketing, media, and health-care firms launched ambitious initiatives, sometimes openly telling staff that many employees would be laid off once the neural nets were working. But much of what was produced was vaporware: late, expensive, and barely functional. Many users felt that AI technology simply

wasn’t ready.

Two fringe strains of computer science, starved of investment, hated—no, detested—by industry and researchers alike had somehow unified to form a thriving, sprawling entity now careering toward sentience. “I just thought, there is no way that Nvidia is this lucky,” Aarts said. “There’s no way that deep learning just fits this perfectly because Nvidia has never put any effort into it!”

Huang called it “luck, founded by vision.”

For Dally, it was Huang’s tireless work ethic that made Nvidia succeed. Even Dally, who left no spare second in his day, could not quite believe the superhuman efforts of his boss. “The rest of us are just here to reduce the bandwidth demands on Jensen,” Dally said. “I mean, when does he sleep?” Diercks agreed: “His hobbies are work, email, and work.”

Plenty of people worked long hours, though. Jens Horstmann attributed Huang’s success to his adaptability. “I’ve often asked myself, how is it that we started in the same cubicle, you know, with a similar IQ, both working equally hard,” Horstmann said. “How is it that this person not only built this amazing company, but also a network around him of people that—that would just die for him if needed?” Huang, Horstmann believed, had changed himself many times. He recalled Huang at LSI, pushing the simulation software to its outer limits. “Now, he’s still doing the same thing, but what he’s engineering is himself. He was not born as a great CEO; he was not destined to be one. He transformed himself into one, just by abstracting! Just by problem-solving the inputs and outputs of what a good CEO should be.

TWENTY-THREE: The Thinking Machine

“Looking back, it became clear to me that Jensen had wanted to lose his temper; he’d made a conscious decision to thrash me. Once the performance had started, his fury was genuine, but it was all in service of a larger point he wanted to make. It wasn’t just that Jensen didn’t read science fiction—it was that he actually hated science fiction. He was a

serious man.

The reason that Jensen had succeeded in fields where others had failed—parallel computing, AI, the Omniverse—was precisely because he didn’t tolerate airy speculation about the future. He examined technologies coldly, from first principles, swayed neither by optimism nor fear but only by a cold and patient sense of business logic that he alone could push to the outer limits of corporate foresight. Beyond that he did not look or care to imagine. The potential for human extinction was not a question of corporate strategy and thus, to him, was as foolish as drawing a dragon on the unexplored portion of the map.