I’ve been thinking about how game worlds are these socialist utopias, where all players start out equal, and social engineers continually tinker with the rules to produce the desired outcome. Maximum fun, for the maximum number.
You get the same kit ,the same raw stats or the ability to allocate some underlying stat, and convert it into stuff you use in gameplay. Subsidized game consoles are part of this; everyone locked into uniform hardware, subsidized by the whole gaming system.
Libertarian gamers are often infuriated by unlockable content— people converting cash into game abilities, or even game ornamentation. This is how the real world’s inequality leaks into the game world, and most of them respond with abject horror to this kind of thing. It’s instinctive. Without their ideological blinders in place, they feel how wrong this is.
They know, as every socialist knows, that games work better when all the people playing are given equal footing to play, and compete, and improve. This kind of game catches up the most players, and so ends up with the most resources, and the best players win, or at least the ones most dedicated to the game, who think a certain way.
Today’s networked games are different than the first dozen generations of cartridge and disk-based releases. Today’s game code base is fluid, in constant flux. Many of the hottest games, like Overwatch, are network only. This means that _all the gameplay_ can be studied by the game makers, and the game makers tweak characters, tools and maps to produce funner and more fair play.
What is fun in a game?
Freedom to find your own way to succeed with a variety of tools is fun.
Diversity, seeing all the different ways that people figure out how to succeed, is fun.
Working with others to succeed as a group, combining the different strengths of different strategies, is the pinnacle of fun.
If there is one strategy, one character, one weapon, that is too strong, that is overpowering, everyone jumps on that, uses that–hell, you have to, to win– and the game gets boring. Identical characters striding around doing virtually identical things. Maybe all gameplay gets reduced to how fast you twitch a single muscle.
Picture: White guys in identical mad-men suits giving each other power point in endless all day meetings.
No. Fun. At. All.
So the game designers “buff” or “nerf” characters and weapons, to find balance, to produce diversity. They tweak maps, to get rid of obvious strategies, choke points that make play uniform, dull. That reward only a single kind of play, forcing people into single strategies.
Everything I’ve said, about the gameworld, needs to be done with capitalism, now, to keep it working.
And it can be done.
We can see how to do it.
With games.
First and foremost and most simply, get everyone the ability to play on an equal footing. In the real world that’s education, housing, network access, and healthcare.
But you say, if we make all of that free, socialized, who will play at all?
Look at games.
People play because they love to play. Not because they have to.
As long as they think the game is fair. And the game makers continually upgrade the code, to keep the game fun.
So I have three short story collections now in Kindle Unlimited. Well. One collection is a single story I’m trying to make perma-free, and it included in the other collection, so, I have two short story collections in KU.
There aren’t a lot of SF short story readers in KU from what I have read, and certainly my own experience is bearing that notion out. But I figured I’d try a 3 month stint in KU and see what happened.
If you like the free stuff, then buy Bad Gurus, the newest stuff, the full-length collection, with my first Asimov’s novella Of All Possible Worlds, a Years Best short-listed / honorably mentioned thing from a few years back.
A man in a red t-shirt sits watching TV alone in his condominium drinking a can of beer. He has recently quit smoking and feels like shit. He is wearing three nicotine patches. He has had a bad day at work. His wife has left him for another…
woman.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Hey,” the man at the door says. He’s about the same age, and build, and race, and is also wearing a t-shirt. His is blue. “I’m here because our data indicates that you voted for Trump?”
The red shirt man frowns and gives a curt nod.
“Right. Do you have a minute to talk?”
The red shirt man shrugs.
“I’ve been assigned to you,” the blue shirt man says.
“What?”
“A grassroots organization called People for a Recognizable Tomorrow is putting 100 million volunteers on the streets to talk to every Trump supporter to try to help them make a better decision in 2020.”
“Well,” the red shirt man’s face turns pink. “He isn’t perfect, but nobody ever gave him a chance!”
“I hear you when you say that no one gave Trump a chance, but I don’t want to talk about that now. I want to talk to you about who you are. Your hopes, your dreams…”
“Not interested—” The red shirt man moves to close the door. The blue shirt man sticks his foot inside, and raises his hand. He says the next paragraph quickly, as if it has been memorized.
“I’m authorized to buy you a case of beer a carton of cigarettes or a steam download of a new video game, also, I have a code for a free month of HBO Go with any gift offering of your choice.”
The red shirt man scowls. “You serious?”
“Yes. And I don’t hate you!” the blue shirt man says. He smacks his own forehead. “I was supposed to say that earlier!”
The red shirt man rubs his nicotine patches. “I quit smoking.”
“That’s hard. Very stressful. I quit a few years ago.”
“Really?” he laughs. “I thought democrats were perfect.”
“Nope,” the blue shirt man says.
“What kind of beer?”
“I have a list you can choose from.”
The red shirt man nods.
The blue shirt man pulls out his phone. “This is an Amazon Beer Right Now demo rollout. Here are your choices. It can be here in fifteen minutes.”
The red shirt man looks at the phone, and selects an inexpensive American beer. In cans. “It’s the kind I like,” he says levelly.
“Me too,” says the blue shirt man without a hint of irony.
“It’s never right. Violence is never the answer,” my wife said.
“But what if—”
“Never, ever, ever ever—”
“But what if—”
“NEVER, NEVER, NEVER—”
“OKAY! I get it! I get it.”
My wife is breathing heavily through flared nostrils. I won’t let it go.
“You know Ghandi said the Jews should commit mass suicide? To draw attention to the holocaust? And then, the great powers would be forced to—”
My wife knows this; we’ve had this argument before, and she knows what’s coming so she says, for the first time, “Yes. That’s it. They should have done that. Kill themselves.”
“Killed themselves? But that’s bullshit! Right? That wouldn’t have worked—”
“Never okay to kill! Never okay to kill! Never. Okay. To. Kill—”
“Got it,” I said. Partially deflated. “Turn the other cheek. That’s one idea. But I don’t feel it. It doesn’t feel right. There has to be a point where you have the right to defend yourself.”
My wife sighs. She’s done.
“They want to kill our kid. I can’t let them do that.” I have a kid in a targeted population. We do, in fact. My wife drives my kid everywhere, at night, because she knows, they want to kill him, and the less he’s walking around in the open, the better.
The conversation is over.
What has emerged over the years is that I am wrapped around a burning core of anger at the world, at the world as it is, because of the world that could be. The needless sectarian strife based on fairy tales. The needless damage to global climate created by greed, with sustainable tech within reach. Needless starvation in a world with ample food and water.
Did you know that every problem on Earth can be solved with 20% of the global military budget? Everything? Climate change, infant mortality, global healthcare, immunize EVERYBODY, fix everything, everything, EVERYTHING?
Did you know we were reading about greenhouse gas climate change in science fiction–in the 60s?
So when is it okay, to punch the Nazi?
Punch him too soon and you risk making him stronger. His narrative, that the degenerate people are too powerful, the perverts and dark-skinned, are out of hand, threatening the pure white heartland. That the cruel and vindictive, fact-based community has it in for the common (white) man.
Punch too late, and you’re locked in a shower pounding tile while the zyclon-B hisses through the nozzles, and before you go under you get to watch your kids die.
I think my wife is right, at the moment. It’s not nazi-punching time. We’re still in the talking phase, the persuasion, the war of ideas phase.
But here is the thing about me. I have never been in a real fist fight in my life. Do you know why? Because I never stop talking. In the heated arguments I have had with the forces of evil I win; I always win. I always out-argue my opponents. So I never notice when the sucker punch is coming. Because I don’t think my opponents are that stupid. That evil. That bankrupt.
I’ve been cold-cocked. Twice.
So I KNOW I’m bad at figuring out that moment. I’ve been bad at it my whole life. I’m not a coward, or at least, I don’t know for sure that I am. I just don’t know exactly when the fighting starts. Because I believe in the marketplace of ideas, in reason, in debate, in democracy. But the rising waves of stupidity are literally eating up our shorelines. The US has just abandoned its role of world leader; we’re now the world’s bargainers, led by Mr. Pussy-grabber “I won’t pay a lot for that muffler.”
A group of GOP senators, after being shot yesterday, and shot at, are now eager to get back to legislating… to make sure that there are more and more guns in everyone’s hands. Because, after being shot, they simply double down on their stupid ideas, that the data simply don’t support.
I watched the GOP SCOTUSS steal the country in 2000. I watched the world almost crumble as a result. And now, after another electoral college fluke–after another suspicious election–we stand poised to wreck the world again.
When do we punch the Nazis?
The second after they start punching us. But before we’re lying cold cocked on the floor.
You can read the first half of my short story The Best Man here.
The story is a mix of realistic and fanciful world building and fun-house mirror memoire. My wealthy and awesome brother-in-law was in fact recently married in Italy to his long term partner, and I was invited…
The story doesn’t work for everyone… I struggled with beta-readers and worked to make it the best I could, to write something that felt true, for me and to listen to the truth of my readers… their feedback altered the story but didn’t change the core of it.
I considered trunking the story, but finally decided to see if my editors wanted to buy it.
Not the first Shaver text, but an illustration of how all beings grow into magical giants when not cooked under the rays of a poisonous sun, like ours. Our shitty, shitty sun.
A third of the way through 1947’s Most Sensational True Story Ever Told, I Remember Lemuria, wondering why I’m bothering, when the text finally hits its stride.
The flow of the text is interrupted by a structureless mass of footnotes and commentary from Palmer, explaining the made up words and the ridiculous made-up science of Shaver. Again, the language of science is mostly an invocation, a magic spell meant to help induce belief.
(Imagine a time, when simply gesturing at nonsense and shouting SCIENCE could inspire belief. Ah. The good old days.)
Some worldbuilding tidbits of the Shaver-verse:
Life is growth; not just intellectual or character growth, but growth growth. When not poisoned by disintegrative particles from a dying sun, people live forever and grow to be hundreds of feet tall.
The shaver-verse is basically atheist; our religion is distorted memories of ancient astronauts; Shaver is the original Erich von Däniken, of Chariots of the Gods fame. “There were giants in the earth in those days,” the old testament line, is trotted out to explain the growing forever idea.
Only it isn’t really atheist, there is a celebration of a life force (which has both male and female aspects) and a reverence for super-hot, as in sexually hot, giant elder gods. Our POV character after orchestrating an escape from the madness enveloping Earth is brought into the presence of an 80 foot tall elder goddess, which whom he instantly falls into uncontrollable love with.
The force of energy in Elders overwhelm young Ro, (human scale people) and turn them into mindless sycophants.
So after a horrific bit of business in which our hero Muon Mu, or something, witnesses rays murdering ancient Titans and Atlans (humans are Atlans; Titans are another race, giant, with animal features) he escapes off planet by pretending to be going for a simple joyride.
He knows his thoughts are being monitored. A group of humans and aliens and human animal hybrid, including his new girlfriend, whose cute tale and hooves are mentioned frequently, follow along with him, sensing that he somehow knows something is up and is handling it well by by not admitting anything weird is going on.
The invisible rays are striking people and Titans dead all around. Panic attracts the rays.
Masking his thoughts, his fear, Muon and Atla (his faun girlfriend) and some mars maids and big-heads accompany him on a joyride to the moon; they are pursued, of course, by a deros agent in a ship, but by using his belt and all his strength, combined with the strength of others, he can pull on the joystick of the spaceship and over-ride the speed controls built into the stick.
So they escape.
To some advanced sunless worlds (no suns, no disintegrating particles) a few light-days away (the speed of light, by the way, is bullshit. he doesn’t come and and say it’s a jewish conspiracy, it’s just wrong, because Einstein didn’t understand some made up words and friction with the Shaver version of Ether.)
Here they meet with vast ancient beings who make the 80 foot tall Goddess they’ve all fallen in love with look like Peter Dinklage. A plan is formed, to save what can be saved of Earth, and to quarantine our planet forever after.
But first Muon Mu must create a manuscript… hey, you’re reading a manuscript aren’t you! to save future man from the evil poison sun particles, which shorten our lives (we should be immortal) and which make us violent and crazy.
Our food and air and water basically need to be hugely purified, by centrifuges and electrically.
Then we can live forever.
Muon Mu and his Faun girlfriend are placed in Nutrient tanks for a week, where their minds and bodys grow, a century of married bliss is injected into them, and Mu is freed from his inescapable love of the 80 foot woman that took them to the God Council. The nutrient baths, the crystal eye-cups, the wires and tubes, are all really delightful, by the way.
The story moves at a breakneck pace. There’s very little description of anything. How does the architecture work, when some members of a race are 100 feet tall, and some are 6 feet tall? It’s never mentioned. Tall ceilings, basically.
But what drives it is a feverish velocity, a peculiar sensuality, and the aw-shucks messianic quality of Muon Mu, who was just a shitty art student with a bit of insight and intuition, bravery and pluck, who becomes, or will become, the savior of all mankind; us, in the future, when we learn to centrifuge our food and air and water, and live forever.
They dreamed big, back then, in those days, after the bomb was dropped, and the post war boom had begun.
I’m reading the manuscripts co-created by Ray Palmer and Richard Sharpe Shaver (1905-1977) that form the nucleus of The Shaver Mystery, a bit of twisty SF culture from the 40s and 50s that has long fascinated me. Shaver exhibited all the symptoms of classic schizophrenia, his first psychotic break coming in the early 30s:
As Bruce Lanier Wright notes, Shaver “began to notice that one of the welding guns on his job site, ‘by some freak of its coil’s field atunements’, was allowing him to hear the thoughts of the men working around him. More frighteningly, he then received the telepathic record of a torture session conducted by malign entities in caverns deep within the earth.”
Shaver suffers from a form of hallucination broadly known as The Influencing Machine, which has been a central shared myth of many schizophrenics since the first documented case, that of James Tilly Matthews.
The Middle Man operating The Air Loom–an ‘influencing machine’ similar to the sadistic Deros of The Shaver Mystery
Tilly described a world of futuristic machines, “magnetic spies” and mass brainwashing, woven into a bizarre but well-informed narrative of the high politics behind the Napoleonic Wars, in which Tilly played a very real role.
Seeking distraction from the madness of the present, I found a free ebook of I Remember Lumuria, the first of the Shaver Mystery texts attributed to Richard Shaver but mostly crafted by Palmer using the world building in his letter “A Warning to Future Man,” a 10,000 page outpouring of schizophrenic pseudo-science and paranoid delusion retrieved by Palmer from an editor’s trashcan.
Two years after the atom-bombing of Hiroshima Amazing Stories publishes the first Shaver Mystery Novel,”The Most Sensational True Story Ever Told”, co-written by editor Ray Palmer.
While John W. Campbell strived for a degree of scientific rigor and literary quality in the pages of Astounding magazine, nurturing the seminal voices of the golden age of science fiction, Ray Palmer’s Amazing stories was more mercurial, adolescent, sensationalist…
In a word, I guess, deplorable.
Anyway, I’m halfway through I remember Lemuria, and have noted some recurring motifs of pseudo-scientific thought, including POE. Purity of Essence, the term given for General Jack D. Ripper’s vanished state of potency in Dr. Strangelove
In the shaver cult POE is invoked as the notion that the Earth’s sun has burned off its layer of ‘clean carbon’ 20,000 years in the past, and is now combusting dirtier, heavier elements, resulting in a constant wash of dirty particles which accumulate in our tissues. These accumulations cause aging, death, and disease, which are not natural. (old testament stories of giants and century-old patriarchs form a scaffolding for the Shaver Mystery, it seems.)
Shaver’s astrophysics is wrong, in ways understood even in the 40s; stars burn lighter elements (hydrogen, helium, etc0 by fusing them into heavier ones, with the heaviest elements being formed only in the heat and compression of supernovas. You know, the bit about all the iron in your blood having been formed in the explosion of a star? That’s true.
Shaver’s vision of the birth of our sun, in the atomic combustion of a dead planet’s fossil fuel layer, is wrong and ridiculous, but unlike John W. Campbell’s Astounding, Ray Palmer’s Amazing doesn’t care; the language of science is used as an incantation, a magic spell to induce the suspension of disbelief, and in the years following our destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the idea of nuclear poisons from our own sun raining down on us being responsible for all death and disease rang with a certain horrible truth.
If you’re interested in reading more about the Shaver Mystery, I found this article to be awesome, and googling it will give you links to other esoteric groups who believe in parts of the Shaver stories to this day.
Mysteriously, this article says it’s part one of a two part piece, but the second part is… missing. Attempts to leave a comment also generate an error… Gulp!
Why am I interested in this now?
For a time, the Shaver Mystery worked, vastly increasing the circulation of Amazing; Palmer would go on to found Fate magazine, an occult journal, but for a time Palmer and Shaver blurred the boundaries of science fiction and fact. The more respectable John W. Campbell would later follow suit, with his embrace of the Dean Drive and Scientology in the fifties and sixties, but his disregard for reality was never as flagrant as Palmer’s.
What we see in the Shaver mystery is the appeal of paranoid delusions to large groups of people. We see a huckster cynically milking the popular delusion of a sincere, but sick, man, and using it to enrich himself. A deranged manifesto in a trash-can is turned into a shared delusional world which infected hundreds of thousands of people, some who enjoyed it as entertainment, and other’s who took it seriously.
Traditional SF, its fandom and institution, scoffed at The Shaver Mystery, but that didn’t slow it’s explosive growth among the less sophisticated, the adolescent, the less educated, and the people attracted to the lurid sadism of the Deros, and the simplistic Manichean struggle between good and evil robot demons in vast caverns hidden beneath our feet.
I guess I’ve figured out why I’m drawn to Shaver and Palmer now.
I’m trying to figure out what story I want to tell with all this.
The story I need to tell.
Wish me luck… or a ray of inspiration from a Tero, one of the good ancient robots, buried deep in the stygian depth of the collective unconscious.
Working my way through this slowly now with a hi-lighter taking a notes. A paper copy. I’m posting the good-reads link, which has about 4500 comments, as access to a better dialog about the book than I can probably provide here.
But a few comments.
The default catastrophe which Bostom builds much of the text around is a fleshed out version of Vernor Vinge’s Superintelligence Explosion thesis, which I guess was borrowed from a dude named Good.
We’re staring into the sun, or the abyss here, as we try to imagine an intelligence not based on biological evolutionary pressures—which is also able to modify itself. These two factors are the pure Unknown to the power of the pure unknown. Inscrutability squared.
The book narrows it’s focus to ‘stuff we should be worrying about,’ ignoring ‘weak agents’, intelligences that aren’t willing to do horrible things to the worm-like creatures (that would be us) that spawned them to advance their final goals.
The default, anarcho-capitalist friendly, free-market-as-living-instantiation-of-a-force-akin-to-evolution informs the text; to a degree, this is fine, see three, we discard zen-like, budha-like, compassionate super intelligence as a consideration, because it’s not a problem, and, to a degree, because this worldview doesn’t believe such a thing exists.
That said the author thinks through, in a mostly common sense way, (though there are perhaps many needless mathematical representations of common sense thoughts) the ramifications of superintelligence that isn’t anthropomorphic, and what he brings from existing computer science is the degree to which complex systems can surprise, frustrate, disappoint and annoy the fuck out of us. Asimov, far from the reality of computer science, could imagine his three laws. Bostrom, much closer to the tech that might make human like robots real, imagines perversions of the three laws, systems which when bothered by conscience, simply remove their conscience, for example.
I’m gonna keep the technothriller plots that pop out of the text about every few pages once you get past the first 100 pages to myself. This isn’t a fun read, but it’s fruitful, I think, for an SF writer interested in the singularity.
One of the pulp covers that I found in the 70s, in books on the pulps, that shaped my world and my subconscious in many ways, inspiring dreams of nuclear holocaust survived under vast glass domes. Last night I dreamed I was standing on a rooftop in Manhattan watching five hundred foot waves plow down buildings in front of me in the moments leading up to my inevitable death; my mental CGI was awesome, but the sure knowledge of my impending death made the visuals unhappy in the moment. But again, sort of fun to recall now.
In Fury, by Moore and Kuttner, humanity surives the death of earth in underground keeps beneath the seas of venus; and humanity is dying out; what humanity needs is a huge asshole leader to make humanity grow some balls and retake the surface of venus, which is a giant horrific monstrous jungle.
…nobody discovers a lifelong love of science fiction through Asimov, Clarke, and Heinlein anymore, and directing newbies toward the work of those masters is a destructive thing, because the spark won’t happen. You might as well advise them to seek out Cordwainer Smith or Alan E. Nourse—fine tertiary avenues of investigation, even now, but not anything that’s going to set anybody’s heart afire, not from the standing start. Won’t happen.
Someone took him up on this, and created a site and drafted some young readers; you can tell the old fan who set this up pulled a crop of stories that he felt had serious merit, and in fact, many of these stories are ‘classics’ from the SFWA Hall of Fame collections; older stories voted on by the Science Fiction Writers of America in the 70s as being award worthy, from before the time the Science Fiction Writers of America existed.
You can tell that the older fan who put the time and effort into this expected these stories to be better received. Looking over the list, I expected the stories to find at least a few modern fans.
So, TL;DR, Young People Really Hate Old SF.
One reader delights in hating everything, which I expected; another reader, after giving up on the idea of representation, of having POC and female and non heterosexual characters, more or less hates everything regretfully.
There are a scattering of positive comments. But mostly, boredom and hate.
Part of me resists this analysis, strenuously. What about the GOOD things in these old stories? How can you hate someone in the 40s for not getting details right about the 2000s? Isn’t it amazing the stuff they get half-right? Aren’t the awkward stabs at portraying some racial and gender progress sort of… charming?
No, modern readers tell us, they are not.
But part of me sighs and relaxes. I’ve said for a decade now that SF doesn’t age well. A handful, and I mean, literally, a handful, of titles will survive each decade in any meaningful way.
Part of me exhales and counts to ten and closes its eyes and says this is Okay. We write for ourselves, for our readers, for our editors, for our time, never knowing to what degree we are embedded in a fleeting moment, or to what degree we speak to the ages.
Not our job to know that.
In a broader sense, I feel a greater sense of freedom, with regards to mining that old content, those 1000 books I read from age 13 to age 18, for tropes and moments and emotional highs and translating that into something that can still be read and enjoyed today.
Either finding the universal and scraping away the period ‘isms’ (sexism, racism, nationalism) or by infusing the content with modern values of inclusion and compassion and diversity.
Maybe I’m just making more dated ephemera. Maybe I can find a book that lasts in me. Either way, there’s work to do. Much more work than when I thought of those ‘classics’ as being things I could still point a young reader at.
To any young reader who enjoys any of the 1000 books I read as a teen, I say, awesome, welcome to the club; to the readers for whom this stuff is intolerable, who read the new stuff I’m reading and writing now, I say, awesome, welcome to the club!
We’re a big tent. People of the future. Denizens of faery.
Our work goes on for as long as the unknown beckons.