The workshop is overflowing. Wooden beams for a giant crane, gears for a clock that rings on its own, sketchbooks and a few finished paintings lean against every wall. Pixel Leonardo da Vinci needs the floor back, so he does what any inventor would do: he builds upwards, and calls the result the Invention Tower.
Each piece swings in above the pile and has to land just right. A neat drop keeps the tower wide; a sloppy one shaves off an edge. Stack high enough and the tower rises past the rooftops, past the great dome and up among the birds, where one of his flying machines is already circling. How high can a good invention go?
