The Court of Public Opinion Has No Appeals Process

The phone on my desk had a reporter on hold. A national news outlet, calling about the latest shooting involving a young person. Grand Theft Auto – the video game – they were certain, was the reason.

We were on the top floor of 622 Broadway in Manhattan – Rockstar Games’ headquarters – and Ken Selterman was furious. His position wasn’t reflexive lawyering. It was a deliberate strategy, one he’d held before and believed in: say nothing, engage no one, and under no circumstances give anyone ammunition for the courts or legal arguments against us. He was a smart lawyer with a considered view.

He was also wrong.

I told him we were getting destroyed by the silence. Every “no comment” was being read as an admission. Every ignored inquiry was a story written without us. I told him we were arguing in different courts. His court had rules, evidence, and appeals. Mine had none of that. In the court of public opinion, you’re guilty the moment the story runs – and no one comes back to hear your defense. You have to win it before it’s filed.

He told me he’d hand me the phone when the Manhattan DA called.

I told him I’d hand him the phone when the reporters called. I have one on hold right now.

He stormed out of my office.

I picked up the phone.

That moment set the terms for what became years of crisis communications work on behalf of one of the most controversial entertainment franchises in history. Grand Theft Auto was not just a video game. It was a cultural flashpoint. Every time a young person committed a violent act, Jack Thompson – a Florida attorney who made it his mission to hold the games industry accountable – was on television within hours. He was relentless, he was effective at generating coverage, and he wasn’t entirely wrong that GTA was provocative. He was wrong about causation. We were his favorite example anyway. We were, he said, the road map.

My job was not publicity. My job was stopping the story.

I did it dozens of times. Maybe more than a hundred. The approach was simple and it worked: I engaged. When a reporter called claiming GTA had inspired a specific act of violence, I didn’t defend the game. I didn’t cite the First Amendment. I asked them a question.

Do you actually believe that? Have you ever played the game?

More often than not, they hadn’t. And that question – calm, direct, genuinely curious – did more to kill a story than any legal argument ever could. It reframed the conversation. It put the burden of evidence where it belonged. It showed we weren’t afraid. And fear, I’ve learned, is what reporters smell when they’re circling.

The game’s name, Grand Theft Auto, is a felony in all 50 states. We fully supported the rating system – Mature, 17 and older. Rockstar would go further and say they didn’t want kids playing it, because that killed the cool factor. This was never a product for children. But every parent thought their kid could handle it, and grandmothers bought it as a Christmas gift. So let me say what I could never say publicly: Grandma, the name of the game is a felony. It’s rated M. Don’t buy it for your grandchild.

But you can’t say that on the Today show. Which is the whole point.

Being right is not the same as being effective. The First Amendment protected us absolutely. Invoking it in an interview did nothing. What worked was showing up, being reasonable, and treating the reporter like someone capable of thinking rather than someone to be managed. Most of the time, they were.

Rockstar was sandwiched between Take-Two’s corporate offices on the 6th and 3rd floors of 622 Broadway. Terry Donovan – co-founder alongside Sam Houser, proper British accent, football hooligan energy – ran Rockstar from the middle floors and fiercely defended it. He came up to our floor once, pointed at each of us in turn: I pay your wages. I pay your wages, and your wages. And your wages. Make this stop.

We made it stop. For years, we made it stop.

And then came Hot Coffee.

Hot Coffee was a hidden mini-game inside GTA: San Andreas – a sex scene, disabled in the shipped product but still present in the game’s code. A modder unlocked it. It went everywhere overnight. And I did what I had always done: I engaged. I put out a statement. I said clearly that there was no sex in the game.

Terry’s team wrote it. Terry approved it. Terry literally handed it to me and said: say this. So I said it – to every reporter who called.

The problem was the word “in.” The mini-game was disabled, meaning it wasn’t accessible to players. But it was technically still “in” the game – in the code, in the disc, in the product on shelves. That distinction – invisible to anyone outside software development – became the center of public outcry from politicians. I had met with then-Senator Hillary Clinton days before. She was our New York Senator. We had a relationship with her office. She told me she wasn’t going to do anything. Days later, she called for a Federal Trade Commission investigation. I understood why. It didn’t make it less surprising. Testimony under oath followed.

Who approved the statement?

Terry Donovan.

No hesitation. That was the truth. I told it.

There were no repercussions for me. There were no repercussions for Terry. The game was recalled. Take-Two reported $24.5 million in costs associated with returns alone. Under a consent decree with the FTC – issued July 17, 2006 – Take-Two and Rockstar were required to clearly disclose all content on game discs in future ratings submissions, including material that wasn’t accessible through normal gameplay, and to establish internal review systems to ensure nothing was omitted. Civil penalties of up to $11,000 per violation for any future breach. Senior management was ultimately replaced in a dramatic change of control that deserves its own article. But Rockstar survived. GTA survived. That was twenty years ago and the franchise is still one of the most successful entertainment properties ever created.

I’m proud of all of it – the wins and the losses. I was part of the greatest storytelling mechanism ever invented at the peak of its cultural moment. I’d do almost all of it the same way again.

Almost.

There’s an old adage: all publicity is good publicity. Hot Coffee is the only time I’ve seen it proven wrong. $24.5 million in returns. A consent order. Testimony under oath. The adage didn’t apply.

Six things I learned that I still use:

1. Know which court you’re in. Legal right and public right are different battlefields with different rules. Win the right one for the situation you’re actually in.

2. Engage. Never hide. “No comment” is never neutral. Silence reads as guilt. Showing up, being calm, and being willing to have the conversation shifts the dynamic every time.

3. Turn the question back. The most powerful thing you can say in a hostile interview is a genuine question. It buys time, it shifts burden, and it reveals whether the person across from you has actually done their homework.

4. Precision in language is everything. “Disabled” and “not in the game” are not the same sentence. Under pressure, imprecise language gets you into trouble that precise language never would. Prepare accordingly.

5. Tell the truth without hesitation. Your reputation is the only thing that survives every crisis intact. Protect it at the cost of everything else.

6. Know your lane and own it completely. I told Ken: you handle the DA, I’ll handle the press. That clarity – knowing exactly where your authority begins and ends – is what lets you act decisively instead of waiting for permission you’ll never get.

The FTC press release announcing the Hot Coffee settlement was issued on June 8, 2006. Twenty years ago today. The consent order itself terminates July 17, 2026. Twenty years is a long time to carry the consequences of a few poorly chosen words and a hidden piece of code.

Everything that followed – the media battles, Hot Coffee, the testimony under oath, and the FTC consent order – traces back to that simple disagreement: engage or stay silent. As it turns out, most of those lessons were already sitting in that first conversation with Ken. I just didn’t know it yet.

The reporter on hold that day had a story. I just made sure it wasn’t ours.

Postscript

People often ask whether Grand Theft Auto deserved the criticism it received. My view has always been that provocative content deserves discussion. What it doesn’t deserve is simplistic explanations for complicated social problems. Those are two very different conversations, and much of the controversy stemmed from treating them as the same thing.

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Original Article by James Ankner

Bio: Jim Ankner works with CEOs and leadership teams during high-stakes moments where clarity, alignment, and judgment matter most. He previously held senior communications roles at Travelers, AIG, Citi, and Take-Two Interactive, and now advises organizations navigating pressure, complexity, and scrutiny. Twenty years of situations like this one taught me more than any framework ever could. If you’re in a moment that requires that kind of experience, I’d be glad to talk. (917) 763-4175 | anknerj@gmail.com | linkedin.com/in/jamesankner | www.jamesankner.com Schedule a Confidential Diagnostic: tinyurl.com/ANKNER-CALENDAR