Quinton Hoover, a 31-year-old self-taught freelance illustrator, is utterly mind-boggled that he gets paid to do what he loves. He's grateful, too (not to mention tickled)--lacking any other useful marketable skill, he feels fortunate that his years of dogged determination and just plain bullheadedness actually amounted to anything.

Of course, he doesn't feel he can overlook or underestimate the astounding power of good ol' fashioned dumb luck, either. He knows full well that the current level of success he enjoys owes as much to being in the right place at the right time as it does to any level of ability he might possess. He was brought into the world of Magic: The Gathering® at the tail-end of hiring by then-art director Jesper Myrfors because Quinton showed up at a convention panel when only one other person did, fortunately bearing a small selection of color samples with him that he normally wouldn't have had. Quinton's innate talent for bumbling his way through just about anything ("Sure...I know what I'm doing...!"), coupled with Jesper's willingness to take chances on an unknown artist, put Quinton in the position of riding Magic's success to the top (normally, he'd have been dockside, waiting for his ship to come in and missing the boat).

For the first time in his professional career, which has spanned five years, Quinton finds himself in the odd position of having to turn down work--a foreign predicament. He has labored for several other gaming companies, including White Wolf and New Millennium, and has worked on a number of Wizards of the Coast's non-Magic products. He hopes that his good fortune will allow him to get back into the comics market (where he originally came from, overworked and underpaid), this time as a publisher as well as a creator, with the intention of "getting it right this go-`round."

Spare time is at a premium these days for Quinton, but since the novelty of being constructively and gainfully employed and always kept busy hasn't worn off yet, he doesn't mind. He spends what's available of his time with his family, pursuing the usual family-type endeavors and wandering around his rural eastern Oregon residence. His family is made up of Fran, wife and resident voice of reason; Alyssa, daughter and 13-year-old hormonal vision of the Apocalypse; Patrick, Justin, and Aaron--sons and merry monkey wrenches; and Melody and Micki, cat and dog, respectively (who refuse to concede that they are, in fact, pets).