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Reviews

Vicarious play: a jaunt through computer role-playing game history Dungeons & Desktops: The History of Computer Role-Playing Games, Matt Barton (2008), First Edition Wellesley, MA: A K Peters, Ltd, 451pp., ISBN 978-1-56881-411-7, Hardback, $39.00 (USD).

Reviewed by Matthew S. S. Johnson, Southern Illinois University Edwardsville (IL, USA)

I have often said at academic conferences that computer games, despite having only been around since the 1960s (Steve Russell’s 1961 mainframe game, Spacewar!, is often touted the first), have a rich history; perhaps one equally complex as other media forms that have enjoyed far lengthier lifetimes. Part of the reason for this intricacy – and, even more so, the amazing speed at which it developed – is that computer games evolved with computer technology, and computers (clearly) have steadily and exponen- tially increased in complexity, pervasiveness and integration into the every- day. Matt Barton’s Dungeons & Desktops: The History of Computer Role-Playing Games serves as fine evidence for that theory. He traces computer role-playing games (CRPGs) from their paper and pencil and tabletop origins to the introduction of the ‘first true CRPGs’ in the late 1970s (p. 28), systemati- cally highlighting games from that period through just before publication of the book (which is significant, as the history has moved so quickly – perhaps we should expect to see another Barton CRPG history, equally as impressive, in another four or five years). Any gamer playing pedit5 or Dungeon switching to Morrowind or Everquest will need no further convinc- ing – and yet, as Barton argues throughout the book, the fundamentals were present in those earlier titles, clearly indicating that even games from the late 1970s and early 1980s can be as immersive and fun as today’s comparatively sophisticated massively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPGs), although later titles’ gameplay is generally more complicated and their graphics far, far more realistic (yet perhaps Barton’s history proves that their development is also only arguably progressive). Dungeons & Desktops starts where one might expect: with definitional work about what constitutes a ‘role-playing game’ as opposed to other game genres (Barton uses the term ‘true’ to refer to those games that fit squarely within his definition, but he does not neglect CRPG-related games), an unavoidable task, given the 42 game genres into which Mark J. P. Wolf (2001) previously broke down video games. Barton gracefully weaves this definitional work in with examples of games he addresses

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further, later in the book. In fact, I might mention here that this practice – connecting one portion of his text with others – is a particular strength of Barton’s, lending the whole text a coherence that should be present in all good histories (if the reader is not bothered by frequent comments such as ‘we’ll hear more about X later’, ‘we’ll discuss X further in the next chapter’ or ‘we’ll return to X throughout the book’). Scholars who have read Dungeons & Desktops will indeed be able to refer to Barton’s definition as a quick way to cover this essential task in their own future scholarship. After examining the origins of the CRPG – well before the genre existed and examples of it became playable, from war games (of the nine- teenth century) to tabletop sports simulation games (appearing as early as 1941), from J. R. R. Tolkien (on whose 1950s books much fantasy gameplaying of whatever medium is based) to Gary Cygax and Dave Arneson’s traditional Dungeons & Dragons story-based and dice-governed games (p. 13–24) – Barton covers CRPG history proper. He breaks his history into six chronological segments, which he titles according to eras of human civilization. For instance, the ‘Dark Age’ consists mainly of mainframe games and those designed for now comparatively obscure platforms. Covered here are games for which information is now difficult to trace (although Barton does an admirable job in doing so) and examples hard to come by. The ‘Bronze Age’ sees the advent of the personal computer, and therefore many more widely available games. In the ‘Silver Age’, during which CRPGs really came into their own, we see such well- known and groundbreaking titles (and series) as Ultima and Wizardry. The ‘Golden Age’, which is broad enough that Barton splits it into three sub-eras, is the period in which ‘demand and budgets soared’, ‘developers slaved away at their keyboards, fueled by Mountain Dew and extraordi- nary constitutions’ and when ‘the genre hit the fan’ (p. 87). Semantically pleasing moments like these also indicate that Barton’s authorial voice has clearly rolled an eighteen for charisma. The ‘Platinum Age’ follows, marking the recovery of the industry’s ‘spectacular disasters’ (p. 271) of the 1990s, and introducing Baldur’s Gate, which (I agree with Barton) was positively ‘magnificent’ (p. 287). Fallout and Planescape: Torment also debut, which (I also agree with Barton) were ‘among the best CRPGs ever to grace a desktop’ (p. 287). This is, by the way, one of the attractions of the book: the author is often unapologetically blunt in his game assess- ments, yet I typically cannot find fault in his evaluations (as much as I felt it my duty to try, especially as I rekindle memories of those titles that I wanted to enjoy so badly, but simply could not, such as the later Quest for Glory games). Last is the ‘Modern Age’, in which, Barton argues, ‘Western CRPG developers focus their energies on consoles rather than computer platforms’ (p. 383), despite the release of several best-selling titles for the computer, such as Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic and the latest in the Elder Scrolls series (the spectacular), Oblivion. Barton then focuses on several major console titles. The Modern Age also contains MMORPGs – Ultima Online, EverQuest, Star Wars: Galaxies and World of Warcraft, simply to name a few. (It is on the MMO game that current game studies scholarship seems to overwhelmingly focus. Whether we deem that emphasis justifiable or no, the sheer numbers of games on which

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Barton reports indicates a considerable imbalance.) Barton closes his history with a speculative discussion about CRPGs’ future, largely focusing on the CRPG versus the MMORPG. The book covers comparatively little about the history of either the games’ authors, development/production companies, the industry itself or the ‘culture of gaming’ (although mentions of and brief commen- taries on all of these aspects of the world of gaming are woven into the prose seamlessly). Barton also offers readers numerous screenshots (although these – except for eight glossy, high-quality images placed at the centre of the book – are black and white and somewhat poorly reproduced, which is too bad; however, we get the idea, higher-quality reproduction would doubtless considerably raise the price of the book, and the images’ inclusion is most welcome). It is, as the title indicates, specifically a history about the games (but also in this respect, as the title does not indicate, it is a history, as opposed to the history of the CRPG). In this sense, Dungeons & Desktops would admirably complement Steven L. Kent’s The Ultimate History of Computer Games (2003), which covers the gaming industry, concentrating more on console games; Rusel Demaria and Johnny L. Wilson’s High Score (2004), which is as good for its superbly reproduced images as for its text, covering games, companies and people (also less in-depth, doubtless in part to make room for all of those flashy images); David Kushner’s Masters of Doom (2003), a unique book that concentrates on John Carmack and John Romero of id Software and Doom’s effect on a wider public; and Brad King and John Borland’s Dungeons & Dreamers (2003), which is a cultural study above all else. (Readers may also be interested in Van Burnham’s Supercade (2003), a stunning ‘visual history’ of gaming with contributions from multiple authors; the book itself is ‘game-like’ and charismatic). In fact, Dungeons & Desktops would serve well as the connective tissue that might hold these other works together – none cover the games themselves in greater detail than Barton (and none exclusively cover role- playing games either). Unlike in these other titles, the historical eras in Dungeons & Desktops are, with few exceptions – such as brief introductory and chapter transi- tion paragraphs or interludes to discuss major industry events (such as the aforementioned slump of the 1990s) – broken down by individual game title. Barton describes the games themselves, covering: overall storylines; design platforms; authors/programmers (where pertinent – usually for earlier games); characteristics of gameplay, such as available character classes, races, skills, number of party members; less often, but not infre- quently, connections to other popular culture artefacts (such as Star Trek or Middle Earth, Neuromancer or Dungeons & Dragons); gameplay emphases such as exploration, story or combat; connections to other games (usually similarities between gameplay or the programming engine, for instance); and other general information about each title. A typical passage reads as follows:

Baldur’s Gate also offers much more strategy than Diablo. Rather than simplify or dumb down battle tactics, the real-time aspect adds a new dimension – the time it takes to perform an action (casting a spell, quaffing a potion,

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switching weapons, etc.) may leave a character more vulnerable, and magic- users can be interrupted if they take damage while casting. Many reviewers praised the game for staying so faithful to the official AD&D rules without baffling novices with the details. The math is kept mostly in the background, but it is there for those players who enjoy numbers. (p. 346)

I admit that this is a fairly random selection, but that does not lessen its status as a ‘typical passage’. In fact, the semi-random selection process I employed puts into sharp relief a strong characteristic of the book: this style of game summary/commentary is practised for most of the copious games covered in these 430 plus pages. While often the text can be, from a certain perspective, tedious, nevertheless in this short passage Barton: 1) compares one game to another; 2) evaluates the game overall; 3) provides details of the gameplay; 4) highlights the game’s original reception; and 5) offers advice as to whom the game might appeal. The key, then, to Barton, I imagine, is in the details. Depending on what readers are looking for, this strategy can be – in a fairly binary way – positive or negative. Who might read the Dungeons & Desktops is key here, as while the book may appeal to significantly different audiences it also conflates them to an extent – or at least, in spots, the book cannot quite figure out to whom it is speaking. Scholars will be interested in the great detail that Barton provides (although comparatively few scholars will really need to know that Curse of the Azure Bonds ‘removed the individual character portraits but kept the icons’ (p. 150) – and such details are commonplace throughout the text – but who knows?), but will also be frustrated by the lack of documentation throughout the text (few footnotes are provided and only when absolutely necessary, no bibliography is included and even where direct quotations are taken from other books, no page numbers accompany them). But if the text is not directed towards an academic audience, then we could probably lose the ref- erences to James Paul Gee (p. 3) and Ludwig Wittgenstein (p. 4). Without doubt, gamers will appreciate the game comparisons and the enormous detail Barton offers (especially if they are familiar with the games in question), as well as the quotations from famous (worshipped?) game designers. ‘Older’ gamers – those in their thirties – will hugely enjoy the nostalgic trip on which Dungeons & Desktops takes them (it was not uncommon while reading for me to exclaim, ‘Oh, yes, I do remember that!’ and Barton reminded me of games that I otherwise would have entirely forgotten). Scholars and gamers alike, who might be interested in reviewing/analysing/playing earlier games, especially for the first time, will find the book an absolutely invaluable resource for sorting through what would be most productive and/or enjoyable. Hardcore CRPGers, of course, will love the book through and through. And Barton – despite, I think, conflating audiences somewhat – has nevertheless smartly arranged the book (complete with ample headers) so that whatever the reader’s objectives, they can easily skip around from game to game, passage to passage. To put it another way, Dungeons & Desktops has great re-playability potential from the perspectives of different professional character classes. What will appeal to all readers, though, is something that can be found in Dungeons & Desktops exclusively: the author’s personal correspondence with many of the games’ creators. Throughout the book, Barton includes

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quotations from personal e-mails that he has exchanged with, to name a few, James Aspnes (TinyMUD), Michael Cranford (The Bard’s Tale – the bard was ‘just an afterthought’? [p. 94]. Say it ain’t so!) and Chris Taylor (Total Annihilation, Dungeon Siege). These game creators add to the book their motivations, commentary and criticisms of their own games, personal anecdotes and answers to the seemingly burning questions of their loyal fan bases. In addition – although this information can, if exceedingly inconveniently, be found elsewhere – Barton integrates a wealth of material from various gaming and personal websites, blogs, online game reviews and even several gaming magazines from over the course of the last thirty years, illustrating clearly his extensive research. It is important to note, though, that Barton is not only a researcher; he is also – which is incontrovertibly revealed after pursuing but a few pages of his book – a gamer. He communicates his gaming experience, comprised without question of both ‘authentic’ and ‘researched’ experiences (emphasis on the former). He writes about games as a gamer: on The Bard’s Tale, Barton comments, ‘I lost track of the times I created an entire party of adventurers, only to have them all perish in a random encounter before I could make it to Garth’s weapon shop!’ (p. 93). I feel your pain, Dr Barton. And on Rings of Zilfin he advises, ‘If you’ve ever wanted a CRPG that lets you feed a cookie to a water dragon, look no further’ (p. 109). Indeed, who hasn’t! His love of games and gaming is made apparent throughout the text, a quality of his writing much appreciated, at least by this reader. His credibility as a gamer is, ultimately, unquestionable. His personality also shines through as an honest historian, unafraid to indicate where research failed to produce answers, or materials simply could not be located: ‘The version I played [of Moria] listed 1979 as the earliest release date, but several later versions were produced (up to 1984). Though I’m not sure who did what or when, the six authors cred- ited on the menu screen are …’ (p. 33). And, ‘[I]t’s much easier to acquire these [later] games and run them on a modern computer, whereas we must rely on second-hand accounts of games such as pedit5 and orthanc’ (p. 43). Barton’s prose is as conversational as it is comprehensive. While the book is not for everyone – casual readers may tire of relent- less detail (even half-dedicated gamers might), and only so much detail can be provided per game in the maximum few pages devoted to each any- way – Dungeons & Desktops should grace games studies scholars’ book- shelves (and be close at hand when writing scholarly articles, even if the book would benefit from a more in-depth index and bibliography), and those already interested in games will find much of the book interesting, even delightful, especially if read in multiple, short sittings. I will certainly be among the first to purchase the sequel, which would be appropriate to release, I imagine, in only a handful of years – just long enough for every- thing in computer role-playing games to have changed.

Works cited Burnham, V. (2003), Supercade: A Visual History of the Videogame Age 1971–1984, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Demaria, R. and Wilson, J. L. (2004), High Score: The Illustrated History of Electronic Games, 2nd ed., New York: McGraw-Hill/Osborne.

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Kent, S. L. (2003), The Ultimate History of Computer Games, New York: Prima Life. King, B. and Borland, J. (2003), Dungeons and Dreamers: The Rise of Computer Game Culture, from Geek to Chic, New York: McGraw-Hill. Kushner, D. (2003), Masters of Doom: How Two Guys Created an Empire and Transformed Pop Culture, New York: Random House, Inc. Wolf, M. J. P. (2001), ‘Genre and the video game’, in M. J. P. Wolf (ed.), The Medium of the Video Game, Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, pp. 113–34.

What else can I be? A critical evaluation of World of Warcraft

Reviewed by Kevin Knott, Frostburg State University (ML, USA)

On 22 January 2008, Blizzard Entertainment reported that its World of Warcraft (WoW) had surpassed ten million users worldwide, making the game (in Blizzard’s words) the most popular massively multiplayer online role-playing game (MMORPG) on the market (Blizzard 2008). And yet, amid the congratulations and the applause on that day, one could nevertheless imagine the ghosts of past and ‘yet to come’ MMORPGs lingering above the podium, whispering as they did so to ‘beware the chains forged in virtual life’. Blizzard is no literal Scrooge, not in the bitter and miserly way the character is so often rendered on television and film. Rather, the company’s success haunts it and the industry in much the same way that Scrooge was haunted more by his many regrets and failures than by any disembodied spectre. WoW represents, to game developers and academics alike, the pinnacle of the MMORPG market: a highly populated, fully real- ized, virtual gaming experience that has accrued for itself enough cultural capital to inspire at least one Emmy-winning television programme and the promise of a future full-length film. And yet, as satisfying as its success has been, the game also demonstrates the lows of MMO gameplay. For many gamers, WoW is synonymous with the tedium of unimaginative, redundant questing, all for the sake of keeping players preoccupied until a new peak of in-game success can be manufactured. Regardless, the game’s player base continues to grow, and with another expansion looming in the autumn (Wrath of the Lich King), WoW may once again reach another milestone of commercial success on its fourth anniversary (having been released on 23 November 2004). In the light of that upcoming anniversary, let us take a moment to consider what World of Warcraft has taught us about MMORPGs through its successes and failures. Perhaps the most important lesson is the one iden- tified by Jeff Strain in his speech, ‘How to create a successful MMO’, presented last year at the Games Convention (GC) in Leipzig:

Before you start building the ultimate MMO, you should accept that ‘MMO’ is a technology, not a game design. It still feels like many MMOs are trying to

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build on the fundamental designs established by UO [Ultima Online] and EQ [EverQuest] in the late ‘90s. (Strain 2007)

Far from simply ‘building upon these fundamental designs’, recent MMOs such as WoW have copied and pasted familiar RPG gameplay in an effort to reduce the most daunting aspect of MMOs for casual gamers, namely the high learning curve.WoW users, for example, must first acquaint themselves with the dizzying array of choices presented to them. Between race, class and the physical appearance of the player’s avatar (colloquially referred to as a ‘char’ or ‘toon’), there is still the choice of server type, which vary widely in actual gameplay. Again, EverQuest provided the model here with its player versus player (PvP) server, Zek, the numerous standard servers, and the ‘role-playing preferred server’ Firiona Vie – of course, there was also the short-lived Legends server Stormhammer, intended to offer premium content (in-character support) for players willing to pay more money each month. WoW has modelled its own server offerings on EverQuest’s design by providing players the choice between four types: PvP, Normal (like EQ’s standard servers), RP (role playing) and RP-PVP (role playing within a PvP context). And to further potential players’ agony, they must then choose from more than 200 (in North America alone) servers, long before they even have the opportunity to create characters and experience the actual game. Among the glut of abbreviations there is nevertheless a simple truth. MMOs present players with a digital playground in which numerous games within the larger ‘game’ may take place. Thus, WoW’s enduring legacy may be its success in forging multiple interactive communities rather than one seamless gaming experience. After all, at its heart, WoW is yet another fantasy adventure game that has directly inherited the RPG design of its predecessors, Ultima Online and EverQuest, as much as it has copied and advanced the existing MMO technology. In this way, the familiar RPG experience of creating a character with a particular race (inevitably a Tolkien model with some variation of elves, dwarves and small humanoids like hobbits) and class (the fundamental Dungeons & Dragons model of upfront warriors, stealthy rogues, dependable healers and immensely powerful magi) is seemingly written into the very DNA of the modern MMORPG – and all the more so with WoW. But with apologies to MMOs that have attempted to break this mould, such as Tabula Rasa and Star Wars: Galaxies, the genre of the game (science fiction, fantasy, horror, etc.) has had little influence on the success and failure of MMOs. Instead, the answer may be in the ability of the game to enable the players to craft their own game experiences, to make choices in how they spend their time and the people they associate with (if any at all) as they explore the virtual world created for them. In WoW, we see a pastiche of basic fantasy elements that are as often forgettable as they are familiar, such as the wizened old mentor who guides the hero in his or her jour- ney, or the monster who terrorizes a community without purpose or reason. And then there are the myriad ‘zones’ or lands that are scattered across the world of Azeroth, the fictional planet where the game takes

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place. Like a modern theme park of pulp adventure, players can cross gothic forests on their way to dense jungles as they complete quests, usually to retrieve and/or deliver an item (referred to as a ‘Fed Ex’ quest), gather an item from animal or humanoid enemy (‘drop’ quest) or the occasional mission to defeat a villainous character or group of characters (often a set number such as ‘kill 12 Syndicate Footpads’). Even the history of Azeroth is little more than a backdrop for the quests, though it is rich and inviting just the same. Most players can reach the maximum level of the game (currently set at 70) without ever paying attention to the contemporary events or the various political factions that supposedly call upon the player’s character for help. For example, the Burning Crusade expansion, released last year (17 January 2007), gave players the option to choose between two new political factions in addition to the ini- tial choice between Alliance (Tolkienesque heroic races of humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes and, now, draenei – a satyr-like race) and Horde (the monstrous races of orc, troll, tauren, undead and, now, blood elves). Unlike the endless conflict between the Alliance and the Horde, these new factions, Aldor and Scryer, merely create a context for the adventures across Outland, the remains of the draenei home world, though the player’s choice does limit access to quests and some areas within the cen- tral city of Shattrath. In the end, the choice has little actual impact on gameplay, and it was later parodied in the satiric machinima ‘Jimmy: The World of Warcraft Story’ as a melodramatic sundering of an old friendship between two gnome mages, one who chose Scryer for its epic ring reward and the other who chose Aldor for the nearly epic staff: a traditional American civil war story (Sirschmoopy 2007). The value of Strain’s observation, then, may not be in the recognition that the gaming industry is still wrestling with the actual technology of delivering the MMO experience (though certainly this is a legitimate con- cern), but rather that the supposed primacy of game design and content has led us to make potentially false assumptions about what players value in their MMORPGs of choice. Later in his speech, Strain tempers the excitement of potential MMO designers by relating James Phinney’s belief that ‘half of the appeal of an MMO isn’t anything we designers do – it’s simply the fact that there are other players, so we should make a world that players want to live in’ (Strain 2007). And yet, such an observation begs the question of why more established franchises, with large built-in fan bases, namely Lord of the Rings Online and Star Wars: Galaxies, have failed to inspire a larger community when these are worlds in which fans so clearly want to live. In Timothy Burke’s October 2005 review of Star Wars: Galaxies, we are told that the game mechanics so often conflict with fans’ assumptions about the fictional world of Star Wars that the game reputedly doesn’t feel ‘Star Warsy’ enough (Burke 2005). WoW clearly has no such problem, though die-hard fans of Blizzard’s real-time strategy (RTS) game Warcraft often remark on how important that game was in determining the meta-plot, class choices and geography of Azeroth. Nevertheless, familiarity with Warcraft is unnecessary for enjoying the MMO based upon it, and a lack of familiarity may even facilitate a greater appreciation of World of Warcraft since it eschews the epic war story of Warcraft for a more generic RPG fantasy adventure. Further, it could be

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said that players enjoy the game in spite of the world setting, since they so often congregate in the same select locations, leading more than a few to avoid towns like Goldshire or cities such as Shattrath on a Saturday night when the sheer number of players in one place can result in significant game slowing (‘lag’) or even the complete destabilization of the game (‘crash’). Thus, WoW may be a victim of its own success and a misleading tem- plate for future and current MMOs, even as it presents a tantalizing subject for scholars eager to better understand the significance of MMORPGs. After all, what exactly is the game of WoW? Do we define it by the fantasy adventure that leads a player’s character across a fictional landscape, the inter-personal conflicts that arise when real-life friends find themselves in direct competition within the game world or the performance(s) that emerge as players take control of the virtual environment to construct their own entertainment separate from the game itself? In a recent series of television advertisements, William Shatner, Mr T. and Verne Troyer are featured separately extolling their love of WoW and subsequently asking the audience ‘What’s your game?’ (Blizzard 2007). Implied in the ads is the belief that the ‘game’ is a matter of choosing one’s preferred class – a shaman for Shatner, a warrior for Mr T. and a mage for Troyer, all of whom have chosen the class and race that most resembles their physical appearance and real-life personality. But if there is one lesson we learn in Charles Dickens’ story A Christmas Carol, it is simply that we are not who we appear to be (or were in the case of former celebrities), rather what we may one day become. Thus, the same can be said of World of Warcraft, a game that is perhaps better defined by its potential as a fascinating and immense collection of interactive communities than the popular MMORPG it is today.

Works cited Blizzard Entertainment (2003), World of Warcraft, Vivendi Games. Blizzard (2007), ‘World of Warcraft commercials’, WorldofWarcraft.com, www. worldofwarcraft.com/downloads/movies.html. Accessed 3 May 2008. Blizzard (2008), ‘World of Warcraft reaches new milestone: 10 million sub- scribers’, Blizzard.com, www.blizzard.com/us/press/080122.html. Accessed 3 May 2008. Burke, T. (2005), ‘Can a table stand on one leg? Critical and ludological thoughts on Star Wars: Galaxies’, Game Studies: The International Journal of Computer Game Research, 5:1, www.gamestudies.org/0501/burke/. Accessed 3 May 2008. Sirschmoopy (2007), ‘Jimmy: the World of Warcraft story’, Machinima.com, www. machinima.com/film/view&id=22374#. Accessed 3 May 2008. Strain, J. (2007), ‘How to create a successful MMO’, Guildwars.com, www. guildwars.com/events/tradeshows/gc2007/gcspeech. Accessed 3 May 2008.

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It’s not real until you can tax it: how gaming, yet again, changes reality Exodus to the Virtual World: How Online Fun is Changing Reality, Edward Castronova (2007), First Edition New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 256pp., ISBN 1-4039-8412-3, Hardback, $24.95 (USD). Computer. Computer. Hello Computer…The keyboard. How quaint. Montgomery Scott, Star Trek: The Voyage Home (Nimoy et al. 1986).

Reviewed by Mary Elizabeth Sullivan, Kent State University (OH, USA)

That twenty to thirty million people across western society (kids, adults, students, teachers, fathers, mothers, democrats and bureaucrats alike) have flocked to virtual worlds to play is not news. One of the great appeals of virtual worlds is that they may mirror the ideas for the future that people expected would become a part of our current reality, from computers that are voice-activated and intuitive to flying cars, transporters or even more gentile societies. Nor is it news that people’s real lives are being shaped in significant ways by their online activities, as evidenced by the growing incidents of real-life divorces filed for virtual indiscretions, gaming ‘addictions’ or inattention (in real or virtual life), or the cottage industry cropping up for divorce lawyers and counsellors in virtual realms. In Exodus to the Virtual World, though, Edward Castronova considers the ways he believes that everyone’s daily reality will change because of the economics of virtual or, more appropriately, synthetic-world play. To demonstrate the impact of virtual play on real-world policies, Castronova begins the text with the example of ‘Carla’, a woman who lives in the United States and works in a car dealership by day, and designs and sells dresses in Second Life by night. In this scenario, Carla is able to start making enough money through dress sales, eventually exchanging Lindens (the monetary unit in Second Life) into real US dollars, that this income represents roughly 40 per cent of her entire earnings. Castronova hypoth- esizes first that, as a significant portion of her income, Carla’s Second Life earnings will eventually be recognized by public policy-makers and will be figured into the gross national product (GNP) (for Carla is producing the virtual dresses in the United States). Second, Castronova suggests that these earnings will eventually be taxed as income. These changes in policy that generate revenue for the government will directly impact Carla and American citizens as more money flows into the economy. These are the more short-term effects that Castronova sees virtual worlds having in the real world. Other writers such as Julian Dibbell (2006) have shown that it is already possible to live in the real world on money earned from virtual labour, and John C. Beck and Mitchell Wade (2004) consider how gamers are changing the real world workplace through the value they place on skill competence and the constant desire to improve oneself.

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However, rather than examining the short-term impact of ‘synthetic worlds’ on the ‘real world’ (the author’s divisions to separate material reality from that in computer environments), Castronova’s major project is to consider why this exodus will take place, the workings of virtual economies and the long-term impact of synthetic-world play on material societies. Specifically, he makes four predictions for people within the next forty years. He suggests: 1) that even more people will participate in online gaming environments – an ‘exodus’ to the virtual world, affecting the world of non-gamers; 2) that as a result of this exodus the public will equate game and public policy designs as similar activities; 3) that tech- niques successfully used in synthetic worlds will find their way into real- world policy debates; and 4) that people will develop a deeper understanding of happiness, and that public policy will have to focus more directly on human happiness than it does now (p. xvii). Using basic economic theory, Castronova describes how, given the choice between work and play, people naturally choose play because it is simply more fun. This is why Castronova expects an exodus to occur. Describing the appeal of virtual play is more involved. To account for what makes virtual-world play more fun than real-world play, the author explains that in synthetic environments the rules are fair, that rules apply to every player equally, that there is a stronger adherence to following the rules and that outcomes for play are more predictable. For instance, if a player is told that she must beat a dragon to receive an upgraded sword and ten gold pieces, she can count on receiving that reward upon comple- tion of the task. In like fashion, anyone else who completes the same task can expect the same reward. Also, in synthetic worlds, rewards for completing difficult tasks are greater than completing easier ones. Further, Castronova contends that designers engineer the games to be fun, and create policies that are intended to maximize enjoyment of the experience. Moreover, synthetic worlds have certain advantages over other media including video games (and perhaps) the real world: interactivity that may be lacking in other settings is present in an immersive environment that provides a multi-sensory experience and sociality – a sense of shared goals experienced in reaching those goals. In simplest terms, people can see direct outcomes for what they do, feeling worth through their work in virtual worlds (especially if ridding a kingdom of a dragon). In real-world contexts, people cannot expect the same fairness, rewards, policies meant to make everyone happy or shared sense of investment in the world. Castronova theorizes that if future generations grow up socialized in synthetic-world environments, they will develop expectations about how things are done. When designers create virtual worlds, they appear as governments who are only interested in policies that make people happy or life more fun. Consequently, ‘the gamer generation’ (to borrow a phrase from Beck and Wade [2004]) will expect public policy to mirror its under- standings of fun, justice and so on, all to make its members’ lives more enjoyable. Ultimately, Castronova projects that for the material world to have any relevance for future citizens, laws and public policy will need to re-adjust to people’s expectations. Castronova envisions the way that the real world will need to change to mimic the ‘fun economy’ of play to respond to people’s shift in

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expectations of government policies. He suggests that those interested in public policies can look to game designers for ways to make the real world more fun. The economies and societies in games can serve as examples of how real economies and societies can, or should, be constructed. Describing a process of quick deliberation, and then lengthy testing periods in virtual worlds, Castronova suggests that governments could benefit from this model so that people can have a voice in policy-making and the rules that result can be amended (so there are fewer rules), rather than adding layer upon layer of rules and enforcement of them. More importantly, as people come to expect the real world to be more fun, Castronova envisions eight places that fun economies will put pressure on real-world societies. Among them, real-world governments must:

• provide meaningful employment for everyone who wants to work; • equalize opportunity so that everyone starts out on an equal basis; • equalize outcomes so that the reward is commensurate with the risk involved in completing a goal or task; and • move towards a fee-for-service model instead of flat taxes (p. 139).

For gamers, non-gamers and policy-makers alike, video games and virtual worlds fundamentally suggest a change in the social order of the real world. Castronova describes this shift as the ‘fun revolution’, which he sees as ending the ‘politics of misery’ (pp. 206–7). He expects – perhaps hopes – that this policy of fun, which will eventually become the status quo in the material world, will also bring a strong sense of morality, where the social order encourages people to do all things in their lives well. This is how Castronova accounts for why people will continue to have families. He rec- ognizes that much about raising children is not ‘fun’, but argues that the ‘pursuit of fun must be accompanied by the pursuit of a deeper satisfac- tion, of a moral nature, produced primarily by things like the commitment of a parent to the well-being of his children’ (p. 193). And to get to this point where the fun revolution sparks a renewed sense of morality, Castronova argues that the type of mythos that guides our virtual play – that all of our choices and actions have meaning – will need to be made apparent in the real world. Many gamers, after all, find a map of meaning that they cannot find in the real world (p. 201). Virtual worlds offer more than merely personality exploration; they offer a mythic cosmos in which a personality can find a reason to exist. The author contends that this aspect of virtual worlds may be their most powerful force for social transformation. One problem that readers are left with is that Castronova is looking for- ward twenty to forty years. Beyond the social impacts of gamers on non- gaming spouses’ lives, what is the result of gaming today, and in our society now? Dibbell (2006) and Beck and Wade (2004) give some examples, but the scale on which Castronova sees this change is much greater. The revitalization of a shared mythos that Castronova projects seems much like the grand narratives or metanarratives that Jean-François Lyotard (1979) argues are no longer a part of postmodern society. Lyotard suggests that we now live in a society ruled by paralogy (Lyotard 1979: 60), the individualistic search for new meaning in established practices.

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Thus, the overarching mythos that guides societies is no longer relevant in the modern world. Where Castronova projects the need to return to shared mythos or grand narratives, Lyotard suggests instead that individual experience, and individuals’ unique perspectives on those experiences, is prized in a paralogic society. This is to say that people’s lived experiences (whether virtual or material) of bodies matter in a paralogic society – the experiences all contribute both to little narratives and to creating larger life-worlds in which people work and play together. While the author suggests a compelling future that gaming brings to bear, Exodus to the Virtual World does not provide a projectory of how to get from today to a future where fun affects the ways that public policies are made, or to account for how we might revive the grand narratives that we have left behind. What’s more, he has not accounted for those people who do not relate to the fun culture because they cannot game, those that Jeffrey T. Grabill (1998) has dubbed the ‘techno-poor’. These people may simply have limited, out-of-date or no access to technology. How can these people, who feel the results of inequity on a daily basis, come to understand the new changes in society? If we were to make policy changes, what about the people who may not adapt well during the long tinkering, the testing phase of that policy? Might they not be further disadvantaged? Perhaps the way Castronova starts the book is the best way of imagin- ing an overarching mythos: like ‘Carla’, our labours, whether virtual or real, tend to be valued in society by their ability to be taxed. Perhaps that is what gives the work, or the experience, worth in the real world: this translates into real-world currency, as both a commodity and a characteristic that is valued in society. It is often said that there are certainties in life: death and taxes. Now that we may have multiple synthetic lives, if Castronova is right, in the future, taxes will become the only certainty in life. The question remains though, once our online lives are taxed as much as our material ones, will our synthetic lives still be fun?

Works cited Beck, J. C. and Wade, M. (2004), Got Game: How the Gamer Generation Is Reshaping Business Forever, Boston, MA: Harvard Business School Press. Dibbell, J. (2006), Play Money: Or, How I Quit My Day Job and Made Millions Trading Virtual Loot, New York: Basic. Grabill, J. T. (1998), ‘Utopic visions, the technopoor, and public access: writing technologies in a community literacy program’, Computers and Composition, 15:4, pp. 297–315. Lyotard, J. F. (1979), The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge (trans. G. Bennington and B. Massumi), Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Nimoy, L., Bennett, H., Meerson, S., Krikes, P. and Meyer, N. (1986), Star Trek: The Voyage Home, Hollywood, CA: Paramount Pictures.

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