Karmazin was aghast. Most of the American media-television, radio, newspapers, magazines-depended for their existence on a long-entrenched advertising model. In the old method, at which Karmazin excelled, the ad sales force depended on emotion and mystery, not metrics. “You buy a commercial in the Super Bowl, you’re going to pay two and one-half million dollars for the spot,” Karmazin said. “I have no idea if it’s going to work. You pay your money, you take your chances.” To turn this lucrative system over to a mechanized auction posed a serious threat. “I want a sales person in the process, taking that buyer out for drinks, getting an order they shouldn’t have gotten.” What would happen if advertisers expected measured results from the $3 million spent for each thirty-second ad for NBC’s 2009 Super Bowl, or for the approximately $60 billion spent on television advertising in the United States each year? Or the estimated $172 billion spent in the United States on advertising, and the additional $227 billion spent on marketing, including public relations, direct mail, telemarketing, and sales promotions? “That’s the worst kind of business model in the world,” he said-the worst, that is, if you’re an old-school ad man. “You don’t want to have people know what works. When you know what works or not, you tend to charge less money than when you have this aura and you’re selling this mystique.” For sixty years, network television sold much of its advertising in an “up-front” each spring and summer after the new fall shows were announced. Even as audiences were declining, executives created a cattle-stampede mentality by convincing advertisers they’d get shut out of the hit shows if they didn’t buy early. Karmazin and the networks continued to charge ever-steeper rates because, he said, “advertisers don’t know what works and what doesn’t. That’s a great model.”

The Google executives were equally appalled. They thought Karmazin’s method manipulated emotions and cheated advertisers; just as egregiously, it wasn’t measurable and was therefore inefficient. They were convinced they could engineer a better system.

By then, Karmazin knew there was little he and Google could do for each other. “I was selling twenty-five billion dollars of advertising,” he said. “Did I want someone to know what worked and what didn’t?” Like the aging Falstaff, he had “heard the chimes at midnight.” Karmazin trained his eyes on his Google hosts, his hands folded on the table, his cuff links gleaming, and protested, only half in jest, “You’re fucking with the magic!”

DAYS LATER, that line was still echoing in the halls of the Googleplex. Every Friday afternoon, Google employees assemble for what they call TGIF. They nibble on snacks and drink beer or soft drinks and sit in a semicircle as Schmidt and the company founders make surprisingly candid disclosures-about the latest financial results, visitors who’ve come that week, deals pending-and answer employee questions. Marissa Mayer, who joined the company in 1999 as an engineer and is today vice president, search products amp; user experience, remembered the meeting vividly. Schmidt, flanked by Page and Brin, said, “Mel Karmazin, the head of Viacom, came and found us interesting. They really don’t know what to think of us. We really don’t know what to think of them.”

“The choice quote that characterizes the whole meeting,” Brin chimed in, “was when the head of Viacom said, ‘You’re fucking with the magic!’” For Googlers, as they often refer to themselves, Karmazin’s deference to tradition was anathema; they questioned everything. Mayer said the Google founders always asked, “Why does this have to be the way it is? Why can’t you ‘fuck with the magic?’”

Since Google’s birth in 1998, as Schmidt acknowledges, Google has set out systematically to attack the magic. “If Google makes the market more efficient, that’s a good thing,” he said. Unlike Karmazin, Google engineers don’t make gut decisions. They have no way to quantify relationships or judgment. They value efficiency more than experience. They require facts, beta testing, mathematical logic. Google fervently believes it is shaping a new and better media world by making the process of buying advertising more rational and transparent. In its view, the company serves consumers by offering advertising as information. It invites advertisers to bid for the best price, and invites media companies to slim their sales forces and automate part of their advertising and to reach into what author Chris Anderson dubbed “the long tail,” in this case to those potential clients who rarely advertised but would if it was targeted and cheap to do so. Google also invites users to freely search newspapers, books, and magazines in what it sees as both free promotion and an opportunity for publications to sell advertising off this traffic. It invites television networks and movie studios to use YouTube, which Google acquired in 2006, as both a promotional trampoline and as a new online distribution system for their products. It invites advertisers to use DoubleClick, the digital advertising service company they acquired in 2007, for their online ads.

Still, Page told me, he does not see Google as a content company. Google’s computers can “aggregate content; we can process it, rank it, we can do lots of things that are valuable. We can build systems that let lots of people create content themselves. That’s really where our leverage is.” That leverage, inevitably, makes it easier for audiences to migrate away from old media. This will cause some distress, but satisfying everyone, including traditional media companies, is not Google’s goal, he said; serving users is. “You don’t want to do the wrong things in a way that is causing real damage to the world or to people. But you also need to make progress, and that’s not always going to make everybody happy.” Armed with this conviction, Page and Google’s engineers have made many media companies very unhappy indeed.

It wouldn’t happen all at once. In the early days of the new century, few old media companies had yet lapsed into panic mode. Newspapers saw their circulation and ad revenues slipping. From a peak daily newspaper circulation of sixty-three million in 1984, circulation slid an average of 1 percent each year until 2004, when the drop became more precipitous. Publishers did speak of moving aggressively to create digital newsrooms, and in the nineties the Tribune Company and Knight Ridder, among others, made digital investments. But the chains that owned most newspapers were predominantly interested in getting bigger in order to gain more leverage. There was little urgency to move to the Web; online newspapers were usually stepchildren of print editions, not allowed to break stories or employ their own separate staff, not allowed to look or feel much different from a print newspaper.

Network television viewing had similarly been eroding. On a typical night in 1976, 92 percent of all viewers were watching CBS, NBC, or ABC; today, those networks (along with Fox) attract about 46 percent of viewers. The networks responded to the decline by cutting costs, buying local TV stations and cable properties, producing and syndicating more of their own shows, and-like the movie studios-putting their faith in hits like NBC’s Seinfeld, to save them.

The media buzzwords were convergence and synergy. The common credo was that the advantage accrued to vertically integrated corporate giants-to Viacom, AOL Time Warner, News Corporation, Disney, Gannett, Tribune-those able to control every step in the process from an idea to its manufacture to its distribution. The synergies would come not from partnering with other companies but from owning content and the means to distribute it. With that in mind, media companies pushed to blur the borders between traditional industries: broadcast networks acquired cable networks; telephone companies acquired cable distribution companies; cable system owners invested in content companies and telephone services; Hollywood studios bought broadcast networks along with music and game and book companies; newspapers bought local cable and radio.