FTX founder Bankman-Fried is the subject of Michael Lewis’s new book, “Going Infinite: The Rise and Fall of a New Tycoon.”
Most of the people who went to work for Sam Bankman-Fried ended up in jobs for which they were not obviously qualified, and Natalie Tien was no exception. She’d been raised in Taiwan by middle-class parents whose only real hope for her was that she’d find a rich husband. She was highly agreeable and ill-designed for rebellion. She still reflexively covered her mouth with her hand when she laughed. And yet she’d been determined to prove to her parents that they’d underestimated her.
That first TV show Natalie watched from her own desk, but later, during future interviews, she’d walk around behind Sam to confirm that, yes, his eyes moved around so much because he was playing a video game. On live TV! Often, on live TV, Sam would not only play a video game but respond to messages, edit documents and tweet. The TV interviewer would ask him a question and Sam would say, “Ahhhh, interesting question” — even though he never found any of the questions interesting.
As Sam went back and forth with the Forbes reporters, he — and Natalie — worried mainly that they’d publish a number that would require him to explain more than he wanted to explain. He’d walked the Forbes people through what they knew, or thought they knew. “There were two reasons I talked to them,” he said. “First, it was going to be in there anyway. And second, it makes them trust us more.
Sam’s approach to his commitments was an even bigger issue. Natalie mapped out every minute of Sam’s days — not just the TV appearances but the meetings with other CEOs, and curious celebrities, and rulers of small countries. She put nothing on Sam’s schedule that he had not agreed to. More often than not, it was Sam who had suggested some meeting or public appearance. And yet Sam treated everything on his schedule as optional. The schedule was less a plan than a theory.
Three days earlier, Sam had boarded a private plane in the Bahamas bound for Los Angeles, with nothing but his laptop and a change of underwear. Since then, he’d had brunch with Shaquille O’Neal and dinner with the Kardashians, and had watched the Super Bowl with the owner of the Los Angeles Rams. He’d chatted with Hillary Clinton and Orlando Bloom.
“Yuuuuuup,” said Sam, to whatever Anna Wintour had just said. His dwarf platoon, to which he’d added a princess or two, was defending the Hoard Dragon. At the same time, it was attacking its new foe, his opponent’s hero, a fat white penguin named Wonder Waddle. A dwarf named Crafty assaulted a sad-looking wimp called the Lonely Prince. Sleeping Princess wiped out the Labyrinth Minotaur.
Sam shifted in his chair. From his wrinkled cargo shorts he pulled his ChapStick. He twiddled it. Valuable seconds ticked away. Finally, he hit a button. The Hoard Dragon vanished, and Anna Wintour reappeared. Curiously, only when he was talking did he want to see her. “Interesting!” said Sam. “That’s super interesting.” But even as he expressed this interest, he pressed a button that caused the Wikipedia page to vanish. In its place appeared an enormous golden tomahawk. The Hoard Dragon was hanging by a thread. Another battle was about to begin, against a character named Peter Pants. Peter Pants was the opposite of the Hoard Dragon. Peter Pants was a make-or-break character whose powers dwindled over time. Peter Pants was all about killing you quickly.
“I certainly would love an introduction,” said Sam. “He’s someone who I’d love to see as president.” If he thought that would satisfy Anna Wintour, he was wrong. She wanted to nail down a place in the real world where Sam might be, and a time he might be there. Natalie was prepared for Anna Wintour’s people to be disappointed when she told them that Sam wouldn’t be there. It was their outrage that surprised her. “They called and shouted and said Sam will never set foot in fashion again!” said Natalie. So much for pulling more women into crypto. Natalie didn’t understand why the Met Gala was such a big deal. Sam’s last-minute decision not to go would not create anything like the havoc caused by some of his other internal calculations.
As he drew closer, I saw that it was a blue suit and a button-down Brooks Brothers shirt. “This is my D.C. suit,” he said, almost apologetically. “Normally I leave it in D.C.” Six hours in the future he was meant to have dinner with Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell, whom he’d never met. He’d been briefed that McConnell would be offended if he arrived in shorts.
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