My son, who is 11, has a posse of friends who meet online every few days to wield imaginary weapons, accumulate imaginary wealth and slay imaginary foes in the multiplayer world called Runescape.
He calls this group his “clan.” The members have avatars that are endowed with various powers, which the kids use as fodder for that ancient rite of preadolescence: one-upping your friends. And, you know, achieving awesomeness.
I am 48 years old and do not inhabit any virtual world, awesome or otherwise. For me, Runescape is primarily a parental irritant (and occasional lever to induce household compliance), but it does have its educational aspects. It is revealing, for example, to hear Griffin and his buddies tease each other about their relative prowess, as if it were they, not their computer alter egos, who possessed these qualities. Recently, I learned that a new clan member is an archer, which seems at least moderately cool because of the bow and all, but in fact he is considered an entry-level flunky by seasoned Runescape players. In online social hierarchies, you’re nobody until your avatar is somebody.
So I read Kara Platoni’s cover story on virtual reality with great interest. Forget kids’ games—how might grown-ups behave if they could adopt a different identity? What if they were thinner, taller, younger, maybe even a different gender? As they interacted with other “people” in a virtual world, would they still act like themselves, or like the new person they imagined themselves to be? And would any of that pretending carry over into real life?
Despite the funny-looking VR headgear and the promise of titillating possibilities, the research carried out in Jeremy Bailenson’s Stanford lab is quite serious, aimed at acquiring deep understanding of the human psyche.
But lest we confuse the true meaning of a “second life,” consider Richard Burns’s memoir. Burns recounts his journey after being stricken with a cerebral hemorrhage and given up for dead. He has spent the remainder of his life filling each day as if it were a providential gift, a bonus.
Thinking about Burns’s experience alongside the imagined experiences of a virtual environment, I was reminded of an anecdote. Two friends are engaged in a debate about existentialism. One of them is defending the authenticity of a role-playing game, and refuses to draw a hard line between virtual reality and the plain old kind. “They’re both real at the time you’re experiencing them,” he says.
His friend thinks about this for a moment, and finally replies. “Okay, let’s do an experiment. Have your avatar hit his hand with a hammer. Then hit yours. See if you notice a difference.”
Ouch.
