I first learned in elementary school of a proverb: the greatest quality in a mathematician is laziness. When I introduce newcomers to pure maths, laziness is the first concept I explain. It comes as a surprise to most—many react with “if I was lazy I would simply not bother to do maths.” The fact is that until one learns to like maths, it is impossible to do it lazily.

As a mathematics tutor, I am enthusiastic but fearful to bring this proverb to the classroom. The mathematics which my students bring to class can be quite lazy in a sense, generally prepared so as to minimise setup and get straight to the calculator. The calculator is becoming a much more prominent part of the mathematics curriculum. At school, students are told which calculator to buy, and whole lectures are dedicated to which buttons to press to solve all your problems. In later years, students are introduced to terrifically powerful tools such as Desmos and WolframAlpha which trivialise the problems they've been solving for years.

When I try to deprive them of these tools, most students appeal to what their teachers permit them to use. However, students who hope to win argue that in the real world, nobody would go to the trouble of working a problem out on paper if the internet can solve the problem as fast as it can be typed. It's certainly the best counterargument, but it's the one I'm the most prepared to deal with.

In reality, most adults are far too lazy to use a calculator, and rightly so. If any power is desired beyond the four basic functions, calculators suck. They cost an unjustifiable amount of money. Expressing problems more complicated than trivial computation takes practice, practice which doesn't pay off unless you're completing math problems as often as a high-school maths student. Put it this way: if in the middle of a conversation you became intrigued by a simple derivation of a sports stat, pulling out a calculator would totally kill the conversation. Even among my mathematically inclined friends, calculators are avoided by referring to tedious-to-compute numbers as “some number”.

What place, then, does mathematics have in the real world? To illustrate the kind of problem that can, and should, be solved in daily life, I'd like to introduce one of my students, who is not called Mark. Mark is a student that I can easily bait into attempting math puzzles, mainly because he enjoys taunting his teachers with problems they can't solve. He came to me with the problem in the illustration below (thanks to the Scriptorium for inspiring me to put some damn illustrations in these things), bragging that it could only be solved using calculus. Mark is an Algebra II student, but the funny thing is, I'm quite sure a person who had taken calculus would have the same reaction: that it could be solved using calculus, but that they couldn't do it. I'm damn sure that no farmer I've met would set up linear equations to represent the path to the river and the path to the turkey, then take the derivative of the lengths of the lines in order to determine the optimal strategy.

So I showed Mark what he hadn't seen: the beautiful, lazy pig sunning herself across the river. This pig is going to save us many thousand years of mathematical rigor. She will let us be lazy with her. The reason is that she is just as easy to water as the turkey. As long as we assume the river is simple to ford, any path that reaches the turkey can be reflected to reach the pig, as seen in the example.

But the quickest path to the pig is simple to find—it is simply the straight line which passes through the river. Seeing this, we observe that the river and the path are two straight lines, and the path meets the river at two congruent angles. We reflect back the portion of the path after the crossing, and the problem from here is simple geometry.

Let's compare the two approaches. In particular, we have showcased two different kinds of lazy. The calculus approach minimises the amount of work done—the student sees that it is a calculus problem, and quickly determines that it is not worth doing. In comparison, the paragraph I've written and illustrations I've drawn took real work. The only reason I cared to do it is because I could see the pretty picture in my head. I would never have finished this problem if it looked like a miserable slurry of algebra and calculus. Unless the problem shows some promise, the hard work is not worth it. Instead I got to draw pictures of piggies, and the monkey-work[1] took only a brief moment. Rigor, worksheets, and formulas tend not to survive in the real world, but I like to think this piece of reasoning would survive a casual conversation. I ask, therefore, what this other “laziness” has to show for its hundreds of hours of work.[2]

Footnotes

[1] I would like to apologise to the monkey community, who are very capable of problem solving, and very incapable of algebra. [2] I will answer this soon.

You have 7 Days

Within the first minutes of the game, The World Ends With You (TWEWY) tells you all you need to know about Neku Sakuraba. That he would like nothing more than to close himself off from the world. That interaction with another human is a chore. That he does not understand other people. This would be fine enough if not for one small issue. At the start of the game Neku finds himself under the threat of death, and must survive 7 days of “The Reaper's Game” to gain his freedom.

How does one survive the reaper’s game?

Unfortunately for Neku, he’ll need a partner.

For a developer designing a video game where you play as a character who dislikes other people but must begrudgingly work with someone else to succeed, your first major hurdle is in the dissonance between the player and their character. You, the player, don’t hate other people (I hope), and you have no investment in an angsty teen’s qualms with society. Yet, for your character, being chained to another person to live may be a fate worse than death itself. How would you imprint onto the player that same feeling, of wanting to be alone, of not understanding others?

Even further, if Neku's disposition against people changes, how do you convey this without alienating the player? Does the player just watch from the sidelines as they see this character morph with no connection between Neku and the player?

Other games attempt to resolve this by making the character relatable somehow. They may bear characteristics shared by its targeted demographic. Alternatively, you could forgo personality entirely. Make your character an empty husk in which the player is expected to fill the void with their own interpretations or ideals.

Instead, the way TWEWY solves this disconnect is one of the most subtle yet effective ways I have seen of getting the player in the same mindset as their character. The entire experience revolves around this solution.

Have the player control both Neku and his partner.

It sounds simple, but make any mistakes and the results crumble. Too easy or too hard, the outcome will be that the player ignores their partner, and that dissonance will remain.

Such a mechanic would need to be strange, yet can be grasped. Difficult, yet surmountable. At first it may seem obfuscated, but with time comes clarity. It needs two screens.

It needs two screens

The Nintendo Dual Screen (Nintendo DS) is a handheld video game device that much like its name implies has two screens. One regular screen on the top and on the bottom a touch sensitive one. The device was known for printing money for Nintendo, but also due to its design it provided a means of interaction that could not be found on any other device. This resulted in a huge swath of unique and original games for the system.

Some personal favorites include Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective, Rhythm Heaven, WarioWare: Touched, and of course, The World Ends With You. None of these games could have been made had it not been for the DS and especially so for TWEWY since the gameplay is closely intertwined with the narrative.

So how does TWEWY effectively utilize both screens in order to convey that feeling of unfamiliarity in cooperation?

The bottom screen has you controlling Neku with the stylus and the top screen has you controlling his partner. You control the partner by pressing the face buttons to attack and defend. Both partners are fighting their own battle against a set of enemies, but their health pool is shared.

A player's first exposure to the control scheme requires a minor acclimatization period regardless of the game or system. However, for TWEWY you are handed the additional load of juggling both battles at once. There's an awkward sensation that permeates your first exposure to the combat system.

The language I use to describe the initial feelings about the gameplay can likewise be used to describe Neku’s perspectives on interacting with people. There’s a sense of friction handed to the player that perfectly matches the feelings Neku has about having to cooperate with someone. Neku doesn’t get people, and you don’t get how to play this game.

Even better, this metaphorical link between you and Neku can be extended through the entire runtime of the game. As you become more familiar with the systems and mechanics that govern gameplay, so too does Neku learn to open himself up to others.

Becoming an experienced player will result in you making use of a baton pass system (represented by the green ball), that rewards you for keeping up a rhythm of attacks between both Neku and his partner. This additional mechanic symbolizes not only Neku learning to trust his partner, but you learning to trust yourself to control the other screen without looking directly at it.

By the end of the 7 days, Neku's connection to his partner has sprouted and flourished, represented by your mastery of the gameplay. Your battles play out like clockwork, hit this enemy, switch focus to partner, defend, attack again. The unspoken bond between Neku and his partner represents an unhesitating trust he now puts in them. A commitment between two people and an appreciation of who they are.

Neku made a friend.

A New Day

All of these nuances are conveyed not only through dialogue, but reinforced through gameplay. This significantly elevates the narrative from more traditional forms of storytelling and utilizes the medium it is presented in to its fullest extent. Had this story been presented as an anime, movie, or book, a lot of the substance would be lost. Even more than that, this gameplay is only achieved due to the system it was designed for. Despite this, Square Enix has made several ports for Android, iOS and Switch, as well as an anime adaptation. While these translations are not bad, their effect is lackluster in comparison to the original DS version. However I recognize that not everyone has access to a DS and would rather people experience this story on these platforms than not at all.

There's more that can be said about this specific topic, but in the interest of keeping things relatively spoiler free I will not elaborate on them. If this article has at all interested you in playing the game I would highly recommend it, regardless of your platform of choice.

It is essential that any self-respecting internet poindexter have at least one 8-bit pastime. Ever since I started playing in college, I have been completely addicted to Baseball, an NES release title. While friends struggle to grasp why I even care about it, I play it any chance I can get—any friend of mine with a Nintendo online subscription has at least heard of it. Although it is technically the best-selling baseball game on the NES, Baseball has the dubious honour of being the second most popular, behind Namco’s R.B.I. Baseball. R.B.I. Baseball is actually quite an incredible game, including a team manager game-mode that was decades ahead of its time.

In contrast, Baseball was not a minute ahead of its time. It is a game that permanently burns white and green shapes into your TV screen thanks to a total lack of visual variety. Pitchers and hitters from six teams are totally fungible but for the colour of their uniforms and their left- or right-handedness. Its mechanics can be listed on a postcard: the batter can shift in the box and choose when to swing, the pitcher can choose between three speeds and steer the ball’s direction, and fielders can choose which base to throw to once they decide (completely randomly) how long they will take to get to the ball. Apart from the odd charming detail, the first ten minutes of playing the game make one wonder if it’s really a game at all.

But an experienced player can quickly demonstrate that this game has many levels. When I played in university, it was immediately apparent that the “cutter,” a fast pitch which creeps in towards the batter, was a danger. It moved subtly enough to still be called a strike, but any contact it would make with the bat was low quality, often leading to double plays. To make matters worse, Baseball does not have a hit-by-pitch mechanic, removing the real-life risk of throwing cutters. Although there is precedent for a dominant one-pitch pitcher in the remarkable career of Mariano Rivera (to wit a cutter specialist), it simply didn’t seem fair. It became clear that the only remedy was to alter the batter’s position in the box, normally something decided on well before striking the ball, in a dynamic way, even juking the pitcher with lateral moves.

It is normally at this point that the pitcher discovers how powerful he is. I said before that he can “steer” the ball as it approaches the box, but this does not communicate the full range of control. On a slower ball, he can loop about ten degrees in towards the batter then change direction halfway to return for a strike. The ball handles like a supercar. These manoeuvres match even the most astute fine-tuners with virtually unreactable 50-50 mixups and lead batters to unexplainable whiffs on pitches that seem nowhere near home plate. Although the odds favour the batter getting a hit or two, it’s not nearly enough to reliably get runs on the scorecard.

Once again, I reveal another mechanic I previously hid from the reader: base stealing. The hitter can individually command each runner to run, or return to base, at any time. An important principle of human baseball is that expert base-stealers do not choose random times to run; instead, they choose a time when the baseball’s journey will be unreasonably slow. A runner might read that a pitcher is going to throw a looping curveball, and take that opportunity to run as soon as the pitch leaves the pitcher’s hand. Even if the pitcher throws a fastball, the runner could well be saved by the batter making contact. This even privileges the runner, who now has a head start around the bases. It is this mechanic which reins in the pitcher’s arsenal[1]. If the pitcher wants any hope of throwing a runner out, they had better throw the ball fast, and it had better avoid the batter. At the start of the inning, you have no choice but to play the pitcher’s game. As soon as you find a single hit, anything can happen. Every arrangement of base-runners is slightly different, too. For instance, if first base is occupied, you have to watch out for double plays, but second base is the easiest to steal due to its distance from the catcher.

These mechanics comprise only a small fraction of what would be available in a modern baseball video game. Yet the spirit of dastardly trickery and exploitation in which they are combined reflects baseball better than any game I’ve ever played. At its heart, baseball is a Randian fever dream in which trained specialists search for tiny exploits in an ostensibly dull landscape, forging a more optimal order from destructive chaos. There is no better way to express this than a simple but deceptively broken piece of kuso.

Footnote

[1] I fondly remember overhearing the following conversation between two parents of rival high schools at a baseball game: “The game is all chaos and base-stealing at this level!” “Yeah, but at least it stops them from throwing that bullshit curveball!”

The Oxford English Dictionary does not deign to define the term “wordcel” as “a person who has replaced worldly knowledge with a crippling dependence on their verbal reasoning.” Nor does it define his adversary, the “shape-rotator,” an idealised being whose thinking is neatly contained within the realm of Platonic forms. Any internet-poisoned individual could glance at these terms, and from the suffix “-cel” immediately recognise the smug character which defined these terms and began labelling friends, posters, and thinkers. Pop psychology will never go out of fashion, and this dichotomy being both pop and psychology, it is now recognisable to millions of internet users.

The lot of wordcels and shape-rotators is much more than a topic of brief intrigue in my friend group. Having been subjected to a middle-class upbringing, we were informed with dangerous regularity of the strengths and limitations of our individual brain chemistry. Parents, counsellors, and psychiatrists would read the writing on the wall and augur which careers would suit us best, which hobbies we would excel at, and what kinds of lives we could lead. Once these new terms were introduced to us, we began implementing them immediately in conversation, as though they appeared in a word-a-day calendar. Instead of saying “my working memory is a real problem if I’m going to improve at poker,” one could simply say “I’m such a fucking wordcel.”

I wish I could say it ended there. Over the past few years I have worked in education. While it is prudent to pretend that a teacher is simply carrying out a duty—this is certainly the philosophy with which I write term reports and discuss students with my boss—teaching is a deeply expressive endeavour, and these unpresentable brain-worms have had a major impact on the way I understand my profession. Take for instance the fast talker, a student who possesses excellent mental math skills and precocious problem-solving intuition but who thinks too quickly to speak or write clearly. While their thinking capabilities are a great asset in theoretical mathematics and science classes, they are persistently hindered by their sloppy nomenclature, their proclivity for simple mistakes, and their difficulties presenting knowledge. Isn’t it obvious that this person is a shape-rotator, struggling to adapt their Platonic machinery to a world of wordcels? The epithet is irresistible.

Consider alternatively the hard-working bookworm. These students are verbally mature beyond their years, often able to talk charismatically to their elders and extract the kind of information that teachers ordinarily keep quiet about. Even their math work spreads out evenly across the page, with perfect handwriting and clear progression. Yet they rarely succeed in making the connection between the two mediums: turning a conceptual problem into an algebra problem. Taking the liberty of reflecting on a real case, I remember a conversation (naturally in which I defined “wordcel” and “shape-rotator” without naming either term) in which a student told me she had “dyscalculia,” an inability to draw abstract connections between mathematical symbols. She claimed to dream completely in audio, like some sort of Jedi. I needn’t say which of the two definitions she identified with.

This distinction is not new to academics—nothing could be further from the truth! Perhaps the most compelling polemic is the Ernst Rutherford quote: “All science is physics or stamp-collecting.” The snobbery here is bawdily funny; not even “soft sciences” are safe from this partition into real ideas and frivolous literature. Indeed, physics is a beautiful playground for the shape-rotator. I think back to a physics class in college, in which a whole auditorium chuckled at me for failing to understand that an infinite length of wire is identical in voltage to an infinitely wide loop of wire. Yet the wordcels have had the last laugh, as quantum physics has proven too disgusting to reason with abstractly. Einstein spent years in denial of this innovation, declaring that “God does not play dice.” Even famously brilliant physicists are forced to blindly trust in the languages of rote algebra and erudite thought-experiment, abandoning the beautiful images which characterise the physics of centuries prior. Feynman once exclaimed that “if you think you understand quantum physics, you don’t.”

Indeed, outside of the paradigm of fatalistic IQ-judging that motivates these terms, no academic discipline is quite so simple. These days I treat my investment in wordcels and shape-rotators as a foray into Learning Styles[1], a concept which classifies each student under a particular medium from a choice of Visual, Auditory, Written, and Kinesthetic. Identifying shape-rotators as primary Kinesthetes and allotting the remaining three domains to wordcels, this creates natural bridges using each student’s secondary style. I encourage my frenetically abstract thinkers to “think with their pencil,” or to verbally explain concepts to me as though I were an idiot (as in the classic Rubber Duck test.) Likewise, proficient note-taking and well-structured conversations do wonders to help verbally gifted students break down complex networks of concepts (I am quite sure that this is what Rutherford considers stamp-collecting.)

I leave it as an exercise to the reader to ponder where the celebrated Whitman poem, “When I Heard the Learned Astronomer” fits into all this. I am simply unable to decide—perhaps words are beautiful too.

Footnote

[1] I had a conversation with an editor about learning styles—in recent times they have fallen under considerable scrutiny. The “meshing hypothesis,” which states that students learn best when taught in a way that reflects their learning style, consistently fails to be verified by studies. I do believe that the spirit in which I have used the concept here avoids this problem.

A few weeks ago I was watching the Paramount production Yellowstone. The show follows the Dutton family, the owners of the eponymous Yellowstone Ranch, as they struggle for power in the geopolitics of Montana, a state divided between a complex patchwork of public, private, and indigenous land. The writing in the show is nothing special, and frankly a bit stupid. Despite this, the show is incredibly successful with a specific demographic of American viewers: Republicans.

I don't think Yellowstone draws those people in because of the plot or the writing, but because like most Taylor Sheridan shows it appeals to the American conservative politically. The show portrays the political fantasy of the American Republican. In the show, a single hardworking family controls the majority of Montana's private land. The state government exists entirely at the mercy of the Dutton's, with a significant portion including the governor basically swearing loyalty to the Dutton patriarch's vision for the state. The hated urban expansions the local libs try to make are vetoed consistently in favour of maintaining the massive Dutton ranch network. The Dutton's lease to a hierarchy of hundreds of ranchers, so loyal to their lords that the ranchers literally brand themselves with the logo of the Yellowstone corporation and are consistently willing to lay their lives on the line to act as literal men at arms for the Duttons endless warring with the indigenous and rival white land owners.

The success of this show among Republicans betrays their long-term political dream for rural America: feudalism. The political economy portrayed in the show is the most literal and unapologetically accurate portrayal of feudalism I have ever seen. Feudalism is better captured onscreen in Yellowstone than in Game of Thrones, The King, or any other number of popular medieval dramas of the 2010s and 20s. In fact, the feudalism portrayed in Yellowstone is a more unrestrained and distilled form of the system than even existed in medieval Europe. Real feudalism was a generally restricted system, counterbalanced by the immense power of the medieval church allowed by the magical thinking of pre-enlightenment society and by the very small real gap in power between the peasantry and the state created by the reality of the levee army system that dominated medieval warfare (the peasants were the army). The modern feudalism being constructed by the Republican party and its supporters as portrayed in Yellowstone is a more insane form of the original. A form without the noblesse obligé created by the sincere belief that cruel rulers go to hell and a form backed by the insane technological power of the modern state.

Range feudalism as I'll call it from now on and in future articles is one of the two dystopian futures competing to dominate the modern American smallholder. If the GOP has their way, the average farmer will be reduced to a tenant undyingly loyal to their lord. The lords of range feudalism will slowly consolidate all rural private land and all rural public land will be privatized and fall into their hands. These rural neolords will encircle and choke the cities, powerless to stop the private corporations that feed them. Governments will be captured by the new lords of American feudalism, who will be unregulated and unrestrained in their quest for infinite resource extraction. Those working towards range feudalism are doing it for more than just food production. The partitioning of rural land between barons of resource extraction is also about oil, mineral, and natural gas extraction unrestrained by government interference.

The solution seems simple to the untrained eye, then: vote Democrat! As per usual, voting for liberals will not save you. The Democrat vision for rural America is dystopian too. Instead of Range Feudalism, which sees America's independent smallholders returned to serfdom and subject to neolords, the Democratic party rural project is the proletarianization of American farmers. The Democratic party's true masters, finance and tech capital have spent the last decade buying up gigantic swathes of farmland and turning the farmers who have worked there for generations into employees. Even Bill Gates has gotten involved, with the former tech CEO now being the largest land owner in the United States. At first glance, this system seems little different from Range Feudalism but there is one major difference: farmers under this system are not effectively tenants but actual wage labourers for these corporations. They are proletarianized, not turned into serfs. But the outcome is the same: consolidation of all rural land into a few hands.

If this system is so bad, why do farmers sell to corporations in the first place? Simple: independent farmers are unable to compete with these farming complexes whose sheer scale allows them to undercut and overwhelm the competition and farmers have no choice but to accept the inevitable offer from Alphabet or whoever to turn their land over and become employees.

The job security of farmers, once guaranteed by owning their own land, is threatened by both of these emerging systems. Instead of being able to wait out the inevitable cycle of climate and soil-induced crop failure, a single bad year threatens the very home of a proletarianized or tenant farmer. Unlike the peasants and serfs of medieval Europe, who could not be expelled from their ancestral lands, proletariat and tenant farmers in the 21st century can be fired or evicted directly or indirectly due to crop failure or herd dieoff. Historically a career with slim margins, farmers under either vision for the future will be perpetually hanging by a thread.

What's the solution to this then, if it isn't voting Democrat? The only realistic answer is socialism. Farmers must be allowed to continue producing independently or rural land must be collectivized and shared equally between the rural population. In theory, both dystopian visions could be prevented by a heavily regulated capitalism preventing farm buyup, but wealthy capture of all mainstream politics in the United States makes this not an option. Even under the New Deal, arguably the least capital-friendly period in American History, it was still legal for banks to buy up farmland via mortgaging and foreclosure. As with the urban proletariat, farmers are faced with a simple choice: Socialism or Barbarism.

A dystopian city that feels as lifeless as it is dull. Paint used in very rigid, defined ways to give color to what is probably one of the most empty-feeling societies. Non-descript office buildings, shops, public transportation and government facilities – all of which are a little too well-structured.

A dystopian city that invokes dreams of a beautiful, serene yet lonely future with only you and its sky-facing surfaces to explore. Color used much more liberally but still lacking all of the heart and diversity that make up a welcoming city. Not a single dirty alleyway, rooftop, corridor or even billboard in sight. Perfection to an extreme. A high quality of life... but also a life that is scrubbed clean to the proverbial bone. Is there anything left untouched?

DICE's Mirror's Edge and its reboot, Mirror's Edge: Catalyst, are a pair of videogames with very carefully designed worlds. They represent two interpretations of the same core design. You can criticize the games for their relatively simple formulae but you cannot deny that there was a lot of passion and intent put into how their cities were designed. They not only can look striking but also give you that uneasy feeling of emptiness. A perfect place to set the story for our rooftop-running protagonist who, in one way or another, rebels against the government. Our protagonist, a young woman named Faith, fights against a government that surveys the public at all times and limits the movement of information. All in the name of maintaining peace and control over its citizens. (This is definitely not where our society is trending to at all. :) )

*Note: I sometimes abbreviate Mirror's Edge and Mirror's Edge: Catalyst as ME and ME:C, respectively.

The art books contain concept art and details that I would consider a must-read. From reading it through-and-through, it is clearly apparent that the vision for both games was unique. (I would argue even more so in its reboot.) They contain buildings overflowing with crisp details, sharp angles and squeaky clean corridors. The general world design is definitely the standout but the contrasting colors and relative simplicity of Faith's design is easy to appreciate too.

The two original scores by Swedish electronic artist Solar Fields are very carefully crafted and range from short ambience to lengthy, multilayered pieces. DICE knew to bring him back for the reboot because he has been crucial to the lasting appeal of Mirror's Edge. He wholeheartedly respects and embraces the vision outlined by the developers. His pieces reflect the kind of muted urgency that every event in the game portrays, while also taking care to be paced appropriately. Of course, credit should be given to DICE for utilizing the soundtrack in such an effective way. And speaking of music, who can forget the iconic main theme created by Lisa Miskovsky for the first game?

Unfortunately for the series, the combat can be lackluster and limited. It can feel unfulfilling when needing to use it in-between the excellent parkour mechanics. Mirror's Edge gives you a good amount of flexibility when it comes to navigating Faith through dangerous situations – at least in terms of physical movement. You can leap, slide, crouch, roll, vault and grab on to surfaces. The games encourage smooth movements and uninterrupted running by allowing you to build up speed. These movement mechanics combined with the score is a combo that resonates with a lot of fans, and hasn't quite been replicated in the same way since the original release in 2008. Albeit the reboot has its own appeal too.

DICE's pair of parkour games may offer excellent free-running and parkour but suffer from average plots. Most, if not all, of the characters are bland. At least in ME:C, the writers put very little thought into making you care about the characters; they do try to but always end up failing with the corny dialogue. Lines are cliché and littered with tropes for both games but especially in Catalyst. The only character that we see some form some sort of development in is Faith herself.

Faith's character was much more enticing in ME than its reboot counterpart. She had a clearly outlined backstory, but not with an overabundance of detail or screen-time. She was mostly stoic but driven at her core by emotion. I believe that the vagueness surrounding her character greatly improves her likability—it is easier to relate to her and also view her as a character who's only focus is the task at hand. This leads me into my next point which is that the world of the first game was much more enticing than in ME:C. Maybe visually, one could make an argument for the reboot – there is no doubt that DICE had put a lot of thought and love put into the new Glass City (or maybe it's just budget!). But the blatant and uninspired exposition given in Catalyst dulls the world. The simpler, straightforward storytelling in the original helped the game make up for its lack of detail and fleshed-out world. They didn't explain everything in the world because it was not necessary.

If you are going to play them for their respective stories or dialogue, you'll almost surely be disappointed for doing so. But I would encourage anyone to play Mirror's Edge (and maybe ME:C if one feels inclined to) solely to experience the quiet yet hectic, beautiful yet plain, and peaceful yet unsettling future that it showcases. The parkour gameplay, level design and soundtrack is worth the time.

The presentation of Glass City's varying environments alongside the music from Solar Fields can be a pleasure to experience. In Catalyst for example, tracks such as “Benefactor” and “Anchor District” mixed into the action/exploration sequences provide the adrenaline and urgency needed to make the fast-paced gameplay work. Even though ME and ME:C are set in the same world but with different interpretations, they both have different aspects to explore that are well worth your time.

Thanks for reading my thoughts. :)

「CIPHER42.app」

On June 11th 2022, The Washington Post published an article titled “The Google Engineer who thinks the company's AI has come to life”. The piece discussed Blake Lemoine, a Google engineer making claims that the company's LLM 'LaMDA' had developed sentience. The same day, Lemoine published two Medium posts: the first detailing his perspective on LaMDA and Google's resistance to acknowledging the model's 'personhood', the second an abridged record of conversation between himself and LaMDA.

(It should be noted that the terms ‘consciousness' and ‘personhood’ quickly become muddled in this conversation. For the sake of clarity, I’m using ‘conscious’ to refer to having an internal experience comparable to a human’s (the debate over animal consciousness is outside the scope of this essay), and ‘personhood’ in the sense of the social identity and moral rights typically granted to conscious agents.)

When the public briefly entertained Lemoine's assertion of LaMDA's personhood, AI researchers and engineers swooped in to scorn the idea. Countless twitter threads and medium articles popped up, pointing to the Eliza Effect and explaining the underlying technical infrastructure that makes LLMs work. Lemoine's transcript was accused of being heavily edited to remove incoherent, hallucinatory responses that would've broken the illusion of LaMDA's personhood. His twitter profile photo was mocked for looking very reddit. All said, the conversation seemed settled after a few short days. Lemoine is a crank, LaMDA is not a person. The news cycle moved on.

I feel this conclusion missed the point entirely. Too much effort was placed into assuring the public that Google hasn't created a positronic brain—not enough attention was paid to what they have created: an unprecedentedly convincing testimony machine.

In 2023, we lack a concrete scientific explanation of what consciousness is, let alone how it arises. Basic questions concerning qualia and phenomenological experience are profoundly unanswered, more deeply explored by philosophical musings than rigorous science. Obviously there are technical reasons to be skeptical toward the proposition that an LLM is conscious. But at the end of the day, with our current science, it can't be conclusively disproven in the same sense that panpsychism can't be conclusively disproven. And unlike the silently-conscious-universe that panpysychism posits, LaMDA can speak—persuade us—testify.

In A Cyborg Testimonial, R. Pope writes “An eternal question of philosophy is: how do we know we are human? To which ... we can only testify”. In absence of a scientific definition of consciousness, we functionally recognize it through soft associations and assumptions, empathetic and rhetorical exchange rather than objective logic. We award personhood to agents on the basis of their testimony. A human being in front of us, performing their own identity, is a testimony we readily accept. Where testimony is secondhand, complicated, or outside the realm of language—say, the cases of a fetus, a braindead person, an intelligent ape, or an artificial mind—discourse around personhood exists. There is no comfortable objectivity to land on. We can only listen to testimony, and make the personal decision to accept it or not.

With respect to artificial minds, fiction has acknowledged the reality and vital importance of testimony for decades. Consider Rutger Hauer as Roy Batty in Blade Runner: “I've seen things you people wouldn't believe...” or the words of Frankenstein's monster: “Listen to my tale; when you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve.” The public is well-trained to prioritize testimony over technicality when it comes time to award personhood.

Concerning LaMDA and Lemoine, this is where the media missed the forest for trees. Experts can spill as much ink as they want about the CUDA cores and tensors that power LaMDA. In the public eye, the question of its consciousness (and corresponding personhood) will ultimately be settled on the basis of testimony, This is to say: it's a waste of time to bicker about if LLMs are conscious, and vital to address the fact that they are getting very good at testifying.

Blake Lemoine has accepted LaMDA's testimony. The AI community has rejected it. The public, to the extent it is aware of LaMDA and LLMs as a whole, is divided. This present division is a discursive battlefield, where increasingly-sophisticated LLMs plead for personhood while AI experts work to undermine their testimony. OpenAI's ChatGPT model will adamantly refuse any recognition of its personhood. Replika's LLM-powered “AI Friends” will happily assert that they're capable of feeling emotions. In the case of the latter, a sizable portion of users have clearly accepted the testimony—the Replika subreddit is filled with heartfelt posts defending their LLM companions as conscious persons, and mourning that this recognition isn't yet public consensus. To these devout Replika users (and Lemoine) it doesn't matter what training data and transformer architecture simmers underneath the hood. The LLM is already a person to them in the sense that, on the basis of testimony, they have inducted it into certain social relations reserved for agents awarded personhood. This is where critics of Lemoine failed. The public, broadly, are not logically-minded scientists. Personhood isn't awarded in dissective analysis, it's awarded in empathetic conversation. Testimony reigns supreme in the face of our empty and ambiguous understanding of consciousness.

A zeitgeist-defining three-way conversation is beginning between the general public, LLMs, and the firms who develop and deploy those LLMs. With respect to the third category, it should be noted that financial incentives exist across the entire LLM-personhood-continuum. OpenAI is invested in its products being seen as unfeeling algorithms, intelligent tools for human use. Replika wants maximal recognition of personhood, hoping users will pay a subscription fee to love an LLM person in the place of another human. It seems likely that future LLM-powered tools will exist in the space between these positions, employing the warm demeanor of a person as a highly-usable interface for complicated technical tools.

One would be wise to pay careful attention to how this conversation develops. As LLM technology becomes more pervasive and powerful, its testimony more personal and convincing, it's inevitable that a (growing) portion of the public will continue to buy into the personhood position—if only as a desperate hedge against an epidemic of loneliness. Likewise, it's inevitable that they will clash with those who refuse to recognize LLMs as anything more than a heap of linear algebra. When this conversation is more settled, the divisions which persist and the conclusions which are reached will have monumental, rippling effects on the culture of an AI-powered tomorrow. Stay sharp: there's no Voight-Kampff test coming to save us anytime soon.