to differentiate Apple’s platforms—allowing them to become commoditized like HP and Dell
machines—would have meant death for the company.
There was, in addition, a more personal reason. Apple had invested in Adobe in 1985, and
together the two companies had launched the desktop publishing revolution. “I helped put Adobe
on the map,” Jobs claimed. In 1999, after he returned to Apple, he
had asked Adobe to start
making its video editing software and other products for the iMac and its new operating system,
but Adobe refused. It focused on making its products for Windows. Soon after, its founder, John
Warnock, retired. “The soul of Adobe disappeared when Warnock left,” Jobs said. “He was the
inventor, the person I related to. It’s been a bunch of suits since then, and the company has turned
out crap.”
When Adobe evangelists and various Flash supporters in the blogosphere
attacked Jobs for
being too controlling, he decided to write and post an open letter. Bill Campbell, his friend and
board member, came by his house to go over it. “Does it sound like I’m just trying to stick it to
Adobe?” he asked Campbell. “No, it’s facts, just put it out there,” the coach said. Most of the
letter focused on the technical drawbacks of Flash. But despite Campbell’s
coaching, Jobs couldn’
t resist venting at the end about the problematic history between the two companies. “Adobe was
the last major third party developer to fully adopt Mac OS X,” he noted.
Apple ended up lifting some of its restrictions on cross-platform compilers later in the year, and
Adobe was able to come out with a Flash authoring tool that took advantage of the key features of
Apple’s iOS. It was a bitter war, but one in which Jobs had the better argument. In the end it
pushed Adobe and other developers of compilers to make better use of the iPhone and iPad
interface and its special features.
Jobs had a tougher time navigating the controversies over Apple’s desire
to keep tight control over
which apps could be downloaded onto the iPhone and iPad. Guarding against apps that contained
viruses or violated the user’s privacy made sense; preventing apps that took users to other
websites to buy subscriptions, rather than doing it through the iTunes Store, at least had a business
rationale. But Jobs and his team went further: They decided to ban
any app that defamed people,
might be politically explosive, or was deemed by Apple’s censors to be pornographic.
The problem of playing nanny became apparent when Apple rejected an app featuring the
animated political cartoons of Mark Fiore, on the rationale that his attacks on the Bush
administration’s policy on torture violated the restriction against defamation. Its decision became
public, and was subjected to ridicule, when Fiore won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize
for editorial
cartooning in April. Apple had to reverse itself, and Jobs made a public apology. “We’re guilty of
making mistakes,” he said. “We’re doing the best we can, we’re learning as fast as we can—but
we thought this rule made sense.”
It was more than a mistake. It raised the specter of Apple’s controlling what apps we got to see
and read, at least if we wanted to use an iPad or iPhone. Jobs seemed in danger of becoming the
Orwellian Big Brother he had gleefully destroyed in Apple’s “1984” Macintosh ad. He took the
issue seriously.
One day he called the
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