In the Gilded Age of the millionaire, wealth signified ownership. The titans of old built railroads, monopolized oil, and bought their indulgences in yachts, mansions, and eventually, sports teams. A franchise was the crown jewel: a visible, glamorous token of success. But that era is over. Today’s billionaires, those who tower, not with millions but with unimaginable billions, find sports teams and other baubles beneath them. For this new aristocracy, the true prize is authorship of History (with a capital “H”) itself.

Once you pass a certain threshold of wealth, it seems, mere possessions no longer thrill. At the billionaire’s scale, you wake up in the morning searching for something grand enough to justify your own existence, something commensurate with your supposed singularly historical importance. To buy a team or build another mansion is routine, played, trite. To reshape the very framework of society—now that is a worthy stimulus. That is the game. And increasingly, billionaires are playing it.