As a kid, my early computing experiences had been limited to watching my dad work on a hulking IBM on our dining room table, occasionally letting me play text-based Zork or rudimentary Flight Simulator.
But these were Dad's experiences, not mine.
The attic of the old Victorian I grew up in was un-insulated and cold during New England winter. Valuing privacy over heat, it was here I set up my first personal computing environment.
The Commodore 64, an accessible beige boxed computer released in 1982, became my first digital sanctuary. This wasn't just my first computer. Like many of that time, it was my first portal to possibility.
It's easy to dismiss the C64 as a relic.
By today's standards, its specs are laughably limited: 64 kilobytes of RAM (hence the name), a 1MHz processor, and graphics that would make your smartphone calculator app look sophisticated. But focusing on specs misses what made the Commodore revolutionary.
What mattered wasn't what it could do—it was who could use it.
Before the C64, personal computing largely existed in two worlds: expensive professional machines for businesses or primitive game consoles with limited functionality. The C64 breached this divide with a perfect balance of capability and accessibility. At $595 (later reduced to $199), it brought computing to millions of middle-class homes that would otherwise have remained digitally disconnected.
The genius was in its design philosophy. Rather than requiring a specialized monitor, it plugged into your family television—transforming an existing household fixture into a computing display. This wasn't just cost-effective; it was psychologically brilliant. The computer wasn't isolated in a dedicated workspace but integrated into the home's entertainment center.
Technology became part of everyday family life, not a specialized tool kept separate from it.
The moment a work friend of my dad handed me a box of copied C64 software on floppy disks, my world expanded exponentially. Suddenly I was flying helicopters in "Raid on Bungeling Bay" (created by Will Wright, who would later develop SimCity), sailing across the Atlantic in "Seven Cities of Gold," and solving the puzzles of "Lode Runner."
With the C64 games, for the first time, I could fly off the edge of the screen and continue exploring—a revolutionary concept after formative games confined to single locked displays. These weren't just games; they were worlds to explore, problems to solve, systems to understand.
Though my most core computing memory was not playing games.
Following instructions from a C64 magazine I bought, I wrote repeating lines of asterisks looped into "GOTO 10" programs in BASIC and saved them using a cassette tape deck. I anxiously recorded lines of code I had written myself onto magnetic tape—without the slightest knowing if it would actually copy.
Maybe you had that forward-thinking designer friend who had a Macintosh, but most people didn't have computers at home. The C64 occupied a unique space in technological evolution—powerful enough to create engaging games and simulations, yet simple enough that anyone could learn the basics of how to use it.
Nintendo's legendary designer Gunpei Yokoi once advocated for using "weathered technology"—components that are abundant, well-understood, and affordable—rather than cutting-edge innovations.
I believe this similar philosophy powered the C64's success.
Commodore didn't build custom processors or proprietary display technology; it utilized existing, proven components in clever ways.
This approach freed them to focus on user experience rather than debugging new technology, allowed for mass production at accessible price points, and created a stable platform that developers could confidently build upon.
The result?
The C64 became the best-selling single computer model of all time, with estimates between 12.5 and 17 million units sold. More importantly, it created a generation of digital natives who didn't just consume technology but understood and created with it.
We stand at a similar inflection point with artificial intelligence.
Like computing in the early 1980s, AI currently exists in two separate worlds: sophisticated systems accessible primarily to technical specialists and simplified consumer applications with limited creative potential.
What we need isn't more powerful AI models. We need more accessible ones.
The true transformation will come when AI bridges these worlds—when ordinary people can create with AI rather than simply consume AI-generated content. Just as the Commodore let me program in BASIC rather than just play pre-made games, tomorrow's AI systems must let users direct and create rather than merely consume.
Our efforts should not be about making AI more powerful, but in making it more accessible—creating interfaces that balance capability with approachability and systems that invite users to get their hands dirty and get into the guts of it.
That cold attic space, with a TV dinner tray holding my C64, was where I learned that technology isn't something that happens to you—it's something you can direct, shape, and create with. Can we create a similar accessibility for AI?
Nye Warburton is an artist and educator from Savannah. Essays are first improvised with Otter.ai, edited with Anthropic Claude, and finalized in Obsidian. Generative images done with Stable Diffusion. For more information visit: https://nyewarburton.com
