Is all the world a Stage? I mean, a Game?

In Liberties Journal, Justin Smith points out that there are at least two kinds of games. There’s the “free play” sort of game, which includes “peek-a-boo, charades, and musical improvisation,” and then there’s the other sort of game, where freedom is, he says, under “severe constraints.” Winning is the purpose of the second sort of game, but winning doesn’t apply at all to the first kind, which isn’t even purposeful in the same sense. The two activities are so different we probably shouldn’t call them both “games.”

Smith observes that the first sort of game (call it a “type-1”) involves something called “fun,”, but the second kind (“type-2”) might have nothing to do with it at all — or maybe only the winner experiences “fun.”

Computers can play games, of course, but they can only meaningfully play the second type. Nobody knows how to create a computer that can have fun. The idea feels weird, and it’s not necessarily something you’d even think of. Why would anybody help a computer have fun? And how would you know if it did? After all, we only build computers and program them to accomplish rational goals, right? And while we might consider it fun to, say, play a type-2 game against a computer opponent, there’s no instrumental goal associated with building fun into that opponent.

“Gamification” means somebody is trying to turn a run-of-the-mill, mundane activity into a type-2 game. One stated purpose is to introduce some notion of “fun” into what is generally drudgery or at best meaningless, usually corporate-bureaucratic activity. Running meetings, for exmaple, or driving an Uber, or in some parts of the world, maintaining your standing in the community by toeing the line.

But it’s always type-2 games that are the basis of gamification. There are scores and resources, algorithms and strategies. It’s never “just having fun.” How would you build “just having fun” into anything inherently not fun already?

I’m going to suggest something that I possibly have no justification for doing. I am not a “gamer” and I haven’t ever played any of the mega-popular game platforms. I’ve never owned a game console, with the exception of the Sega something-or-other I bought for my daughter when she was about 9. I played some sort of martial-arts fighting game with her, and lost nearly every time. But here’s the thing: I think the people who do get deeply involved in those type-2 games do it because, for them, the activity becomes a type-1 game. It’s a way to just have fun.

To return for a moment to the Justin Smith article that I began with, the piece is partially a critical review of David J. Chalmers’ book Reality+, in which Smith uses gamification as an illustration of why Chalmers’ view of our reality (which might, in Chalmers’ view, be a computer simulation) is limited by his culture and era. Smith argues that “The ‘simulation argument’ is nothing but an apoology for algorithmic capitalism.”

Smith is really taking on the ideas that “machines are bound to become conscious”, that when they do they’ll be in competition with humans (for some reason), and that they might “defeat us” in a manner closely tied to the Hollywood-esaue cinematic depiction of armed conflict featuring individual soldiers (but not too many; extras are expensive) and superstar individuals that have super-duper weapons (like in Marvel movies) or are relatively indestructable (like in the Terminator movies) or are just better in many ineffable ways than regular people (like in anything starring Tom Cruise). This is the future as a gang fight with imaginary powers, great editing, and a sound track.

We’ve got plenty to worry about, but I’m not at all convinced that “the machines defeating us” is one more item in that list. Norbert Weiner warned about the machines winning, but his model was “the checker-playing machine that can defeat the man who has programmed it.” Just type-2 games, in other words. And those really aren’t that important. As Smith points out, “The real prospect of our total defeat arose in the middle of the twentieth century at the same moment that we began to take strategy games, even such trivial pastimes as checkers, to be paradigmatic models of the core endeavors of human life.”

That stuff is only a “core endeavor” if you see the whole world in terms of winning and losing. Some do, but I think most don’t (although think about how incredibly much persuasion is directed at us, trying to make that our point of view). So sure, we might lose at checkers. But so what? We’re the ones who know how to have fun. So go have some.

Tales from the Forest

Beaver was introducing Goose to Porcupine, Hedgehog, Squirrel, and Raccoon. Those four met at Porcupine’s house every Tuesday to play Acorn Caps, a game they loved, but that they couldn’t get anyone else to play. Not even Otter or Muskrat, who loved games.

“Goose is just visiting,” said Beaver. “She stopped in my pond on her way south.”

“Pleaztameetcha,” said Squirrel, who was thinking very hard about his next Acorn Caps move. Should he cap the third acorn, which would mean his pine cone advanced to the second walnut, or should he move his stick laterally, which would get him an extra turn in the next round, but would mean his gray pebble wouldn’t get paired with a bayberry? Acorn Caps was a game with a great deal of strategy.

The other players weren’t quite as busy as Squirrel, since it wasn’t their turn. “Hello Goose,” said Porcupine, “will you be visiting long?”

“No,” honked Goose.

“Do you stop in the forest every year?” asked Hedgehog.

“No,” honked Goose.

“Meeting up with your flock?” asked Raccoon, who knew that geese usually booked group excursions rather than traveling alone. She had always suspected it was because of the great deals they got from Goose Egg Travel, the travel agency that all the geese used to reserve their trips. Goose Egg always delivered excellent deals, and their motto was “Book your trip with us. It’ll only cost a goose egg!” Raccoon wasn’t quite sure whether the ‘goose egg’ was supposed to mean ‘zero’, or if you really had to trade them an egg.

“No,” honked Goose. Goose was turning out not to have very much to say.

Porcupine decided to try a question that Goose couldn’t answer with just a ‘no.’ “Goose, how was the weather up north when you left?” she asked.

“Fine,” honked Goose, and left it at that.

“Well if the weather was fine,” said Hedgehog, “why did you leave?”

“Because,” honked Goose.

Squirrel finally decided that the best move was to aggregate three bayberries next to his chestnut, which protected his third acorn and meant that Porcupine’s gray pebble couldn’t flip the fourth acorn cap until the pine cone was three steps closer. It was a defensive move, but Squirrel was worried about Raccoon’s first acorn; it was threatening the oak leaf. And everybody knew what that meant. His move complete, he turned to Goose.’

“Goose, pleased to meet you!” said Squirrel, more carefully this time. “Do you remember your cousin Wood Duck? He stopped by just to say hello the other day, and was asking about you and whether you’d be visiting the forest this season. And what do you hear from the Swans lately? You know, Cygnus and Celia?”

Goose was taken aback at all this talking, and blinked at Squirrel for a moment. Then finally Goose just said “Dunno” to Squirrel and that was that.

Raccoon had an idea. “Goose,” she said, “Hedgehog, Squirrel, Porcupine, and I were just playing a game of Acorn Caps. It’s an excellent game — sit down over here and I’ll show you how to play. You’re going to love it!” She took Goose by the shoulders — which is not easy with a goose — and ushered her over to a spot next to Raccoon’s side. Then she started explaining the game pieces, and the rules, and how to play.

“Oh my,” said Beaver, “I wonder if you’re finally going to get someone new to play Acorn Caps.”

“Maybe,” said Squirrel, “but it won’t be today, either way.”

“Why not?” asked Beaver.

“It’s obvious,” said Porcupine. “It takes one whole day to explain the rules, and most of the next day to get the playing pieces straight. There’s the acorns, of course, and the oak leaf — very important. But there’s also the chestnut, the stick, the gray pebble (each player has just one of those), the bayberries (you get five), the pine cones, the walnuts, the small pile of sand, the larger pile of sand, the other stick, the maple leaf, the white pebble (there’s only one of those in the whole game), the blades of grass, the cattails, the...”

“Wait,” said Beaver, “I don’t see any cattails.”

Hedgehog rolled his eyes. “Well DUH,” he said, “we haven’t ever gotten to that part of the game, so why would you see cattails?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Beaver. “I don’t really understand all the rules, you know.”

“No excuse,” said Hedgehog, “I can see not getting the rules about the flakes of oats or the blueberry gambit — those are fine points — but everybody knows about the cattails. It’s practically the most famous part of the game.”

“The game is famous?” said Beaver. “I thought you four were the only ones who knew how to play.”

“We are the only players in the forest,” sniffed Porcupine. “Worldwide, though, there must be thousands of avid players. Maybe even hundreds.”

“I think you have that backwards,” said Squirrel.

“You mean there are lots of players in the forest, but not in the whole world? That doesn’t make any sense,” said Porcupine, “the forest is part of the world too.”

“That’s not what I...” began Squirrel, but just then there was a very loud “HONK” from where Raccoon was teaching Goose about Acorn Caps. It was Goose, of course (nobody else honked like Goose). Goose was standing up, staring at the game and backing away. She held up her wings as if to shoo the game away.

“No,” said Goose, “not playing. Flying. Bye.” And she rushed out of Porcupine’s door, flapped into the sky, and was gone.

“Huh,” said Raccoon, “I hadn’t even gotten to the lily pads or the sand yet. I wonder what the problem was?”

“Goose probably remembered her schedule, and she had to get going in a hurry,” said Beaver, who had a pretty good idea what the real problem was. “You all might as well get back to your game. I’ll be running along as well.”

“No wait,” said Hedgehog, “why don’t you stay and watch us play? That’s the best way to learn, you know. You can even sit in on some turns. It’ll be fun!”

“I’d, um, love to,” said Beaver, “but I have an important chore back at my pond. My dam needs some urgent attention, and it can’t wait a moment longer. Maybe next time. Bye!” Beaver rushed out of Porcupine’s door, hustled down the path, and was gone.

“That was weird,” said Raccoon. “But that was the most I heard Goose say. I think I counted five words, am I right?”

“Yes,” agreed Hedgehog, “five words all in one go.”

“Ha,” said Raccoon, “that’s excellent. That means I get, what, five divided by...two more blades of grass!”

“It does,” grumbled Squirrel, eyeing Raccoon’s bundle of blades of grass. She already had more than anybody else. “Porcupine, it’s your turn.”

“Oh goodie,” said Porcupine, “it’s almost time for the apple seeds! That’s one of my favorite parts of the game!”

Photography

A five-year-old having fun. Nothing photographically unique about it though. iPhone photo.

Phrase of the Day

It’s pretty common lately in political speech to see the phrase “playing the [x] card”. It’s generally meant as a criticism, meaning that if a politician “plays the gender card” or “plays the race card”, it somehow delegitimizes whatever point they’re trying to make.

The first of these cards to be played appears to have been the race card, which began appearing around 1974 in the UK publication “The Observer;” a story included “…the Tory leadership declined to play the race card.” In that case the usage was simply descriptive, not critical; the Tories, I guess, could have used the issue of race but did not.

The gender card shuffled to the top about 15 years later, and this time its first appearance seems to have been in the US. The Boston Globe said, in 1990: “…if Murphy plays the gender card in her ads she will lose the broader coalition…”. An alternative to the gender card is the “woman card” — it’s a bit more specific, of course, but politically about the same thing. This one showed up in the UK, in The Independent in 1991: “Ms Switzer’s riposte is to play the ‘woman’ card for all it is worth…”.

Why cards? It’s probably because playing cards are embedded surprisingly deeply in our culture; people have been playing games with cards in the relatively modern senses of both the cards and the games for about 700 years now. Cards have been used metaphorically for a long time too. “Such news might create a panic at Vienna, and cause Russia to drop his cards…” appeared in “Vanity Fair” (the novel, not the magazine) in 1848.

There have been other card-oriented phrases in the language for centuries too. The term “sure card” goes back to the 1500s, and means something that will ensure success. “‘Capital!’ said Mr Lenville: ‘that’s a sure card, a sure card. Get the curtain down with a touch of nature like that, and it’ll be a triumphant success’.” That’s from “Nicholas Nickleby”, published in 1839.

Jack London, in the 1910 book “Burning Daylight”, referred to a “good card”: “How important the card was to become he did not dream, yet he decided that it was a pretty good card.”

You might notice that the cards in these linguistic allusions are very close to actual, physical cards, while the political kind of cards are far more metaphorical. There’s a sort of bridge between these kinds of uses, at least in the UK. In the 1800s “playing the Orange card” was an appeal to the Ulster Unionists in Northern Ireland. The origin of that phrase is known; it was coined by Lord Randolph Churchill, who was also Winston Churchill’s father. There’s some speculation that it might even have loosely referred to some sort of physical card signifying membership in an organization. It probably didn’t refer to a unique item in a deck of playing cards, because, come on, if just ONE card was orange everybody would know exactly what it was.

Car of the Day

This would be a “type-1 enjoyment” car. There might not be a single thing rational about it nowadays. It’s a 1941 Plymouth. My dad once bought one just like it (not as shiny) for $50.

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