Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Volume 1, Number 3 - Cultures of Virtual Worlds

Vol. 1. No. 3 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009 Guest Editors Mia Consalvo Mark Bell Editor Jeremiah Spence Technical Staff Andrea Muñoz John Tindel Jaqueline Zahn Kelly Jensen With Special Thanks to JVWR reviewers: Cassandra Van Buren Celia Pearce Dmitri Williams Greg Lastowka Hector Postigo Hilde Cornelliussen Ian Bogost Jenny Sunden Jeremy Hunsinger Joshua Fairfield Kelly Boudreau Lisa Galarneau Lisa Nakamura Matthew Falk Miguel Sicart Nathan Dutton Robert Cornell Sara Grimes Tanya Krzywinska Thomas Malaby Tiffany Teofilo Toby Miller Todd Harper Torill Mortensen Tracy Kennedy William Huber This issue was sponsored, in part, by the Singapore Internet Research Centre, the Department of Radio, TV & Film at the University of Texas at Austin, and the Texas Digital Library Consortium.

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research Volume 1, Number 3 February 2009 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” ISSN: 1941-8477 Table of Contents • “Because it just looks cool!” Fashion as character performance: The Case of WoW o Lisbeth Klastrup and Susana Tosca, IT University of Copenhagen, Denmark • Knee-High Boots and Six-Pack Abs: Autoethnographic Reflections on Gender and Technology in Second Life o Delia Dumitrica, University of Calgary, Canada o Georgia Gaden, University of Calgary, Canada • The Gorean Community in Second Life: Rules of Sexual Inspired Role-Play o Tjarda Sixma, The Netherlands • The Constitution of Collective Memory in Virtual Game Worlds o Anthony Papargyris, Athens University of Economics and Business, Greece o Angeliki Poulymenakou, Athens University of Economics and Business, Greece • Spectacular Interventions in Second Life: Goon Culture, Griefing, and Disruption in Virtual Spaces o Burcu Bakioglu, Indiana University • Analyzing Social Identity (Re)Production: Identity Liminal Events in MMORPGs o Javier A. Salazar, Tohoku Gakuin Unversity, Japan • Striking a Balance between Property and Personality: The Case of the Avatars

o Norberto Nuno Gomes de Andrade, European University Institute, Florence, Italy • On the Dark Side: Gothic Play and Performance in a Virtual World o Mikael Johnson, National Consumer Research Centre, Finland; o Tanja Sihvonen, University of Turku, Finland • Interconnecting virtual worlds o Leonel Morgado, Assistant Professor of Computer Science, Department of Engineering, Researcher at the Research Centre in Knowledge Engineering and Decision Support - GECAD/UTAD - University of Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro, Portugal.

• Method and the Virtual: Anecdote, Analogy, Culture o Tom Boellstorff, University of California • Culture and Practice: What We Do, Not Just Where We Are o Cristopher Paul, Seattle University • Culture and virtual worlds: The not-quite-new experiences we study o Mark Bell, Telecommunications program, Indiana University o Mia Consalvo, School of Media Arts & Studies, Ohio University • Virtual Worlds Round Table o Nick Yee, Palo Alto Research Center; o Elizabeth Losh, U.C. Irvine o Sarah Robbins-Bell, Ball State University.

• Artistic Expression in Second Life: What can we learn from creative pioneers of new mediums? o John Lester/Pathfinder Linden, Linden Lab

Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

“Because it just looks cool!”

Fashion as character performance: The Case of WoW

By Lisbeth Klastrup and Susana Tosca, IT University of Copenhagen, Denmark

Abstract This paper explores the neglected area of clothing and fashion in computer games, particularly MMORPGs, which we claim is an important aspect of game aesthetics and player performance. Combining knowledge from the cultural studies of fashion with a study of the function and importance of clothing in the gameworld World of Warcraft (WoW), and drawing on qualitative methods, we argue that fashion in an online gameworld like WoW is a vehicle for personal storytelling and individualization.

Keywords: game design; players; storytelling; fashion; clothing; World of Warcraft; MMORPGs.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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“Because it just looks cool!”

Fashion as character performance: The Case of WoW

By Lisbeth Klastrup and Susana Tosca, IT University of Copenhagen, Denmark

Anyone that has ever spent any time trading at the auction house in the immensely popular massive multiplayer online roleplaying game (MMORPG) World of Warcraft (WoW), will have noticed items that are not only armor and weapons, but also fashionable pieces of clothing of no combat worth such as embroidered shirts, wedding dresses and tuxedos can be purchased at the in-game market. This observation inspired us to start a research inquiry on fashion and appearance in a MMORPG like WoW. From our observations, it appears that many World of Warcraft players are interested in fashion, as understood from what their character is wearing. This interest is not only focused on what is popularly referred to as stats (how much armor protection and boosting of abilities the individual pieces of clothes offer their bearer), but is also a question about how their characters look.

The title of this paper is a direct quote from one of the players that took part in the survey we conducted about fashion in WoW. The way our character looks is important to us, even in cases where appearance plays no role whatsoever in the reward system of the game. Our hypothesis is that appearance always plays a role in the social fabric of a multi-player game.

Therefore, providing players with ways to customise their appearance should enhance the personal experience within the game. Players´ engagement with fashion is one of the expressions of the emerging culture of game worlds, where participants have developed unexpected ways of making statements about their identity. Game worlds – at least this kind of MMORPG which does not emphasize personal customization in the manner that games such as The Sims does – are more constrained in that players cannot create their own content, but are limited to the finite number of options the game offers. Another limitation is the predominance of rules over social interaction. This means than generally, everything in the game world has an instrumental function related to gameplay, which gives a tight frame for identity exploration. Still, there is a lively culture around fashion in these games, as we have observed in our ethnography and confirmed through our empirical work. We approach the subject applying relevant insights from fashion theory to an analysis of the WoW game fashion mechanics, a qualitative survey on fashion in WoW to which more than 200 World of Warcraft players from all over Europe have responded, and a focus interview with two very experienced players.

Clothing and Fashion in Computer Game Research There is a curious lack of discussions of the importance of clothing in computer game research. Even a book such as Robbie Cooper’s Alter Ego – Avatars and their creators, about players and their game avatars and filled with pictures of people’s game characters in flashy clothing, barely touches upon the subject (Cooper, 2007). Clothing is also just mentioned in passing in David Freeman´s Creating emotion in games, a book that otherwise discusses character development in great detail (Freeman, 2004). Similarly, in their seminal book on Game Design, Rollings and Adams only briefly mention “cosmetic things such as clothing color” as one of the “intangible” attributes that goes into defining an avatar in a MMORPG (Rollings & Adams, 2003, p. 522). In Edward Castronova’s Synthetic worlds he points out that “shiny

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clothes” is one of the elements through which status can be expressed, concluding that “the status distinctions found in synthetics worlds engage emotions that correspond to the ones we have on Earth” (Castronova, 2005, p.113). Several essays in the The video game theory reader likewise touch on characters and players’ relation to them, but do not engage in discussions of clothing (Wolf & Perron, 2003). Like most work on players, avatars, and characters, these essays focus on broader issues of identity, psychology, and sociality when discussing how to analyze and understand player-character relations.

A recent notable exception is the Ludica-collectives paper titled “Dress-Up: Costumes, roleplay and imagination” which examines the functions of dress-up from a gender perspective, both in general as cultural practice, and more specifically, as it takes place in various forms in digital games and worlds (Fron et al, 2006). The authors make a distinction between two forms of dress-up: dressing up dolls and dressing-up as somebody, for instance when you play a character in a MMORPG. The later form of “dress-up” can take place in many ways, including what they describe as the very typical MMORPG “instrumental” activity of “donning armor, which for many players are typically “dressing up by numbers” (p. 6). They point out that some players prefer to combine the “statistical and aesthetic” features of armor, but do not discuss clothing and fashion in much more detail, and in general primarily focus on dress-up as roleplaying (“being someone else”) rather than the concrete practice of dressing-up with clothes as we do here.

Some other questions tangentially related to clothing investigate how gear is linked to social status and the relation of looks, gender, and power. The first topic is dealt with by Duchenaut et al (Duchenaut et al, 2006) in the paper “Alone Together.” In their discussion of reputation and audiences in MMORPGs, they briefly point to the fact that in cities in WoW, high level player characters are sometimes simply left standing outside the auction house to “show off” their newly acquired gear as a mean to showing their accomplishments. Though they do point to the need of also providing players with more opportunities to gain an audience of admirers, or what one might describe as “making a spectacle of themselves,” they do not discuss further the role clothing could have in this context (p. 7-8). The second aspect is introduced by Corneliussen and Mortensen (2005), who criticize the fact that even games with a high number of resourceful feminine characters dress them rather stereotypically. The article notes that stereotypical dressing means different things for the different genres: “big muscles signify power, big breasts do not.” Although our interest is in clothing generally and not in the gendering of clothing, we will return to this discussion at the end of this paper, specially as our findings suggest that the play with clothing in certain MMORPGs actually brings the gender closer together.

Clothing has on the other hand received quite a lot of attention from a programming and technical perspective; however, this strand of research focuses primarily on how to portray and represent clothing in the most realistic matter, and does not pay much attention to the function of clothing as such. Authors interested in this area do, however, recognize that clothing is a “a key storytelling tool used to convey an intended impression to the audience” (Bridson, Marion & Fedkiw, 2005, p.1) It thus largely appears that even though the interest of clothing is generally recognized in both computer game theory and design and graphics research, its function and importance seems to have received little attention. Here might therefore be a fruitful field for further studies and

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research, as our field needs more concrete analyses of the relations between players, their characters, and the gaming experience.

There is a certain irony in the fact that fashion shares with computer games a status of low-brow pastime, even though the perceived consumer groups are very different and would no doubt gaze upon each other in horror if confronted. However, we are convinced that exploring the connections between these two popular culture forms will demonstrate that games do not operate in isolation from the rest of popular culture and that cross-over discussions can reveal interesting perspectives in our cultural panorama.

In computer games, fashion has been the focus of some very popular games among girls, such as Barbie Fashion Designer, where game producers try to tap into one of the best known female pastimes in order to reach the female market segment. These products are typically despised by “real gamers” (usually male) as not worthy of being called games. However, games with a fashion component are not an isolated phenomenon any longer. One could argue that an interest for the appearance of game characters and for “dressing” them in different ways has grown with the new generation of MMORPGs (which introduce more possibilities for customization than the early ones), doll-house games such as The Sims, the customization orgy of Animal Crossing, or even the success of the virtual world Second Life.

It would be foolish (and judgmental) to reject fashion as a superficial ingredient when thinking about how players interact with virtual worlds. As early as 1998, Casell and Jenkins (1998) advise us against “dismissing traditional girls interest too easily” (p.21). Indeed, there seems to be a growing general interest for games that play with appearance and identity like the ones mentioned above. Flanagan (2003) talks about a “feminization” of computer game players in relationship to managing the domestic space of The Sims, and Wirman (2008) finds the same feminine quality in the possibilities of customizing content that some games offer players, which many of them take further in the modding practice known as skinning. Skinners create different appearances for their avatars by altering the computer code or using the tools some games provide, so this is an even more performative praxis than the mere choosing of clothes, which is all WoW allows, but still a comparison is useful. Wirman has studied skinning practices around The Sims and stressed the ways in which game affordances are also symbolic communication: The Sims and Barbie Fashion Designer games afford a player to set her own goals, look closely at a game character, move characters in different directions and customize the character. They also offer an avatar, or a character through which the player interacts with the game world or which carries the player´s agency in a game. [. . .] All of these factors encourage attention to what a character looks like and acknowledge its importance, including possibilities for identification, as well as empathy, within the game (Wirman, 2008, p. 405).

We would like to expand Flanagan and Wirman’s interpretation, both concerned with the feminine, and argue that this new interest in appearance and clothing can be extended to male players as well, as our empirical findings demonstrate. Likewise, men also perform their identity through the exploration of their appearance in game worlds.

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Fashion and Clothing in the WoW Game System In order to understand the function of clothing and fashion in a multiplayer gameworld, it is important to look more closely at the particular game mechanics and of the types of personal performance they afford. In the following, we will examine the interplay between character development and use of clothes in World of Warcraft.

When the character enters the world, he or she is typically dressed in very simple clothing, often revealing quite a lot of skin. It will not take the player long to pick up or be able to buy better quality clothing that covers the body a bit more, but a character will have to reach a specific level before she can, for instance, wear shoulder or head gear. Having progressed somewhat in the game, the character will often be able to go on class specific quests, the reward of which will be “good” pieces of armor. This armor might be desirable because it is rare and can be used to signal that the character has completed some of the more demanding class or race quests. At an even later point in the game, depending on the players interest and financial means, the player may start to switch between clothing (armor) worn for combat outside the cities and in-city clothing. In-city clothing does not have very good stats, but might look smart, serve as the guild uniform, or help the character explicitly role-play his or her character when hanging out with role-playing oriented players.

If the player wants to stand out and not wear standard class armor, the game allows for several ways of obtaining more unique pieces of clothing. Hence, one of the skills that characters in WoW can acquire is the “tailoring” skill, which allows the player to produce more and more elaborate pieces of clothing, beginning with simple linen wear, then wool wear, silk wear, and more refined “silks.” The pieces of clothing the tailor makes can then be used by the player himself, which is the original intention with the tailor trade; given away to other players at the cost of materials, a way to upgrade one’s tailoring skills; delivered to a guild; or sold on the auction house, the in-game player-driven market. Other players with an interest in more unique clothing or armor can either trade or buy these player-made items, if they are not interested in developing their own tailoring skills. As an example, pieces of clothing such as the “orange martial shirt,” “tuxedo pants,” or “white bandit mask” which have no significant stats will often sell at quite a good price because they are consistently fashionable items that can give a character a more original look. On player-driven sites such as Thottbot.com, players will often give advice to each other on how to obtain the desired piece of clothing and put a perfect set together.

Another way to obtain more unique pieces of clothing is to participate in one of the seasonal related quests that celebrate real world well-known holidays and occasions (e.g., Christmas, “Winter Veil”; Halloween, “Hallow’s End”; or the Chinese New Year, “Lunar Festival”) or in-game seasonal events, such as the Darkmoon Faire. During these festival seasons, players can pick up special quests, the completion of which will earn them a piece of festival clothing which will typically be worn at festival or guild parties.

Finally, in the end-game part of the game, players can earn points in the high-end dungeons or go up again certain monsters in order to collect entire sets of clothing with especially good stats, designed to fit perfectly together and to be used for specific end-game activities. These are also by some referred to as tiered sets and are typically class-specific. These items worn in combination will boost the chosen class talents. These sets stand out by matching perfectly and make the player look larger and more colorful; for instance, the tiered set for the druid includes antlers which are designed to stand out in a crowd as a marker of status. Thus, 7

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wearing one of these sets will signal to other players that you are a competent and seasoned endgame player.

Figure 1. The Druid Tier Sets.

This analysis exemplifies how clothing and character progression seem to be closely intertwined in WoW and that the designers may be conscious of this in their world design. It appears that clothing can be used both to make a character stand out such as when a character is wearing a “hard-to-get” outfit or his own combination of armor and fashionable clothing; as a way of marking one’s status as experienced player such as when a player is wearing a tiered set; and as a means to encourage role-play and interaction with other players.

Our Empirical Work: The “Fashion in WoW” Survey and a Focus Interview Our main method in this study has been ethnographic, specifically through participant observation. One of the authors has been playing WoW periodically for three years, with a focused period of observation of clothing practices from February through May 2008. The other author has been playing WoW for a year. As observers, we noted certain phenomena, elaborated some hypotheses, and worked with the game from a fashion theory/cultural perspective. In order to complement our own ethnographic observation experience of the interest in “fashionable” items in WoW, we decided to conduct a survey and a focus interview to examine players’ actual interest in their own as well as other players “looks.” This is no attempt at quantitative generalizing, but a qualitative exploration of some ideas. Our survey is limited by its small size and its self-selected nature, although our hope was that by announcing the survey as “Does Clothing matter in WoW?” (not mentioning the word “fashion” in the title), we would attract 8

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more than just the players particularly interested in fashion. But we understand it is likely that the people who accepted to take it already had some form of interest in clothing. The survey did provide us with the impressions of more players, and we use their descriptions as stories and texts that can be interpreted further in relation to our main hypothesis that WoW players use fashion as character performance.

The Survey In late May 2008, on three of the official European WoW forums, we posted a request titled “Does Clothing matter in WoW Research Survey,” including a link to our blog www.fashion-in-WoW.blogspot.com. It was through this link that the players could access the survey. In the short survey, we asked players to give us some basic demographic information about themselves (e.g., country, age, gender, the type of server they played on, and how long they have played WoW). Additionally, we asked them if they ever look at or inspect other players clothing (the “inspect” command calls up a window with another character’s inventory of worn items), at which occasions they notice other players’ clothing, and at which occasions clothing of other players matter to their decision to interact with them. Finally, we asked them whether they have ever spent time or money on in-game acquiring (a piece) of clothing that is not of any particular value to their stats or progress in the game.

A total of 227 players began the survey and 201 completed it. In all, 207 players answered all questions in the survey, except one. The question left unanswered by nearly 20 people asked at which occasions the clothing of players played a role for interaction; we believe this question went unanswered because it was similar to an earlier question asking when players notices the clothing of other players. The numbers provided below are based on the responses of the 207 players. There were two opporunities of elaborating upon an answer with text: respondents could explain their reasons to use the “inspect” command (107 players commented) or they could tell us which piece of clothing with no stats value they had acquired and why (137 players commented).

Average Age Gender Average Playing Experience Kind of Server

OUR RESPONDENTS 20 years 82% male / 18% female 26.5 months 47% Player vs Player / 30% neutral / 22% Roleplaying

This population resembles our in-game experience as to the ratio male-female and the frequency of play in PVP vs RPG servers. Again, we do not claim that this matches the real population of the game, as Blizzard does not provide data verifying these numbers. It should be noticed that even though more players are engaged in PvP servers, they are all interested in which clothes their character (and other people´s characters) wear:

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Do you look at what other players are wearing? 77% always does When do you notice other players clothing?

94% inside a city 76% when instancing 66% when forming groups 59% when raiding 30% at player events 24% questing solo When is clothing important?

47% when in a city 42% when instancing 35% raiding or in battle 31% in player events

These answers indicate that a majority of players do in fact pay attention to what other players are wearing, especially when it is safe to do it, when they have time to socialize with others inside a city, or when they are with players that they might not know particularly well, but still spend some time with, such as in group or during a raid. However, a more detailed analysis reveals that players on the role-playing oriented servers find clothing at player-generated events more important than the overall results tells us, but this does not change the general impression the survey indicates: responses seem to indicate that clothing does play a role in relation to when and if players choose to interact with other players. As we discovered, 63 percent of the twenty four players playing on a rp-pvp server noticed what other players wore at player-generated (rp) events and 70 percent said clothing plays a role for interaction at these events. Of the twenty players playing on an rp-server, 95% noticed what other players wore at player-generated (rp) events and 85% saod clothing play a role for interaction at these events.

We find it interesting that 70 percent of the players told us that they do spend time and/or money in-game to obtain clothing that has no effect on stats or performance. This percentage is far higher than the number of respondents playing on role-playing oriented servers, which were the type of players we expected might be interested in clothing. What we further learned about players’ reasons for acquiring this type of clothing will be discussed below.

As a follow-up to the survey, we decided to do in-depth in-person interviews with players in order to see if their experience of the game and clothing were similar to the impression of the use of clothing we got from the survey and our own analysis. These players were not selfselected (as they had not expressed any previous interest in fashion) and the only thing they knew when they came to the interview was that we would inquire about their experience playing WoW. As one of our main interests was to discover the social meaning constructed in relation to fashion and clothing, we held the interview as a group interview, since we expected the social interplay between the participating players might give us insight that we would not have gotten in one-on-one interviews. We interviewed a 16-year-old male player “Jens” and a 32-year-old female player “Mette” (both names changed for privacy reasons). Both have played WoW for several years, both are end-game players who have levelled a number of characters to the endlevel, and both are members of large serious guilds. Mette plays on a PvP and Jens plays on roleplaying server. Due to their extended experience and close contact to hundreds of players, these players functioned as “experts,” sharing with us their rich observations of how they and other players behave. As a part of the interview, we presented them with some screenshots of differently attired players, and they immediately began to interpret them, making rather accurate

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comments about their level, class, race, and their taste in game fashion. These were surprisingly similar to the way we decode fashion in real life.

Our conversation with these players reinforced our interpretation of how fashion is a present element in the live culture of the game. They confirmed the importance of how a character looks, although this is different depending where your character is in the levelling process. This means there are some long grinding stretches where playing with appearance is a welcome diversion, and other times when it is not appropriate, such as when doing high level instancing. Their comments are incorporated in our arguments below.

The Importance of Fashion in WoW I used to avidly collect robes despite being a tank. Thought they just looked pretty. Then there are the winterveil festival clothes – thought they looked very well modeled if a bit revealing lol. Its nice to have some clothes to wear while your just being casual around a city or something, to just look different. The same is true in reality I think (female, 14).

Fashion is important for many people, yet it has always been a suspect topic. To cultural critics like Veblen (1899) or Barthes (1967), fashion is one of the best examples of human irrationality, a futile pastime only practiced by dupes (generally women). But as contemporary fashion theorists argue, fashion is rather a complex object that cannot be dismissed as unimportant, and it has substantial connections to the society and economy that produces it as a form of expression and as symbolic communication (Wilson, 1985 and Roach & Eicher, 1979).

Fashion belongs to the aesthetic branch. It is a kind of performance art present in all societies, even the most primitive (Wilson, 1985 and Roach & Eicher, 1979).

What is important for newer cultural critics is the expressive and playful character of fashion (understood as what people wear, and not only high couture), and the possibility that it offers ordinary people the chance to express themselves and transform their everyday life “into more elaborate and complex aesthetic experiences by altering the emotional investment surrounding the display” (Finkelstein, 2007, p. 195). Our lives resemble each other, but the clothes we wear can make us special and different. One could argue that our clothes also resemble each other because we all buy them from the same mass produced stores; but the variety is such in the nature of the combinable items, the shapes, the colors, and textures, that each person can have their own style and feel unique (English, 2007, p.103).

The same happens in WoW. According to the comments from our survey and our interview, the most common reason for WoW players to go out of their way to get a clothing item that does not give them any stats advantage is “to look different,” “to stand out,” or “because it is rare.” In fact, one of the sure ways to recognize a new player is that their clothing will be completely standard. The most coveted pieces of clothing are those that make their characters “noticeable”, which here could be a tuxedo, a Santa Claus hat, a wedding dress or a pirate outfit, all things that do not “match” the medieval-fantasy setting of the game. Players even make their own combinations based on the available pieces. For example, one player stated, “I made a Bond villain outfit with a monocle from BRB and a black tuxedo” (Female, 23).

However, even though players are always aware that certain sets “look better than others,” they are not ready to wear disadvantageous gear in dangerous situations (understood as lower level gear), as our interviewees confirmed.

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Comparisons and Status Anxiety It is clear from our respondents and interviewees comments on why they “inspect” other players’ outfits that status awareness and status anxiety plays an important role in their game experiences. A majority of the respondents seem to be inspecting other players in order to “check out” how higher-level players playing the same character class “dress up” or to check if they are dressed well (in terms of armor stats) enough for the level they currently hold. As one players put it, “I guess we all want the best obtainable gear, and inspect all others to see whether we’re slacking behind or not” (Male, 18). Another player adds, “It makes me feel better about my own tanking ability when my gear is superior” (Female, 14). The act of inspecting is not just a question of getting to know the pieces of clothing that will give the character class you are playing the most advantages, but also a question of a motivational “status anxiety”: am I performing well enough in my character class compared to other players? Clothing is pivotal in revealing this, “Gear is a sign of PvE Progress” (Male, 21). Furthermore, some of the comments indicate that just like in real life, players also “inspect” other players when they are envious of their “cool” looks, “[I inspect…] to see what they are wearing that makes them look so awesome!” (Male, 18). Inspecting clothing is therefore an act which seems to both motivate and inspire players in terms of learning about “what clothes to wear” according to the status one currently holds in the game. Mette, our interviewee, told us that at the beginning, she would look at the clothing of the members of a very prestigious high-level guild, Nihilium, in order to learn how to dress and gear-up.

Inspirational Fashion Fashion inspires players in many ways. Besides the in-game activity, a group of fans has created the online magazine Gizmopolitan, which is one of the many player creative expressions based on the game and which reports to have 35,000 readers from sixty three countries.

Gizmopolitan is about “Lifestyle for the women of Azeroth,” and it is an elaborate parody of real magazines such as Cosmopolitan or Elle. Fashion is, of course, an important part of its content, and the writers take ironic distance to the importance of fashion in the game, with articles such as “Luscious Leather,” “Get that Look for Less,” “Little Black Numbers,” “Gizmos guide to great hats,” or “Stormwind fashion.” Fashion is here used as inspiration, discussed as consumption, and as an object of desire, like the interest we also observe in regular players. The difficulty of getting a particular piece of clothing is what determines its value, the more the higher the value.

For example, if the item can only be obtained in a rare quest, if the item is very expensive, or if it can only be worn by very high level players, as indicated by the magazine’s comment that, “Sailu generates a lot of interest in her Lovely Dress, result of a seasonal quest, so if you ain't got one, you ain't gonna have one.”

But the magazine also wants to offer good advice to players that might not be that high level, experienced, or rich, in the spirit that it is the right of everyone to look like a million.

There are several stories about how creative you can be even with few means. For example, in one series of articles is titled “Get that Look for Less” and is about copying expensive clothing even if you cannot access the clothing for that high level. The magazine stresses the fact that because the items available are many, a player can be special just by combining wisely:

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Figure 2. Scholarly Robes and a White Bandit Mask Match Perfectly for an Individual Fashion Statement by Ilusien.

Fashion as a Channel for Playful Personal Expression If we take the last example above as a starting point, we can see how individual players try to influence the impression that their appearance has on others by donning remarkable clothes. Inspired by Erving Goffman´s (1959) work on identity, Finkelstein shows how popular culture and film teaches us that psychology and appearance are intertwined, “a woman in neat, pale clothing represents a mother; a man in a suit, white shirt and knotted tie is a policeman or a doctor; a man in a dark shirt and bowtie is suspect” (Finkelstein, 2007, p. 7). Because these are signals that can be interpreted by all, players consciously tweak their public display according to the desired effect, “black tuxido set, for my bank (every bankmanager should wear a suit)” (Male, 28) or “Similar thing with my orc hunter, really liked the look of indiana jones style hat on him. Kept it for a long time just to wear it in cities” (Male, 24). Sometimes they even purposely send the wrong signals, “Low level clothing in order to appear like a new player to low level characters in the Barrens in an attempt to get them to attack me” (Male, 17). Jens, our interviewee, also told us how he would dress his bank character poorly so that people would think he was new and they were more experienced than him. He believed this made him get a better price out of his items. All these quotes are interesting because they demonstrate that fashion is not a “private state of being” and it should not be dismissed by game designers as a worthless, more or less decorative, add-on (Finkelstein, 2007, p. 27). It is a social investment that has rewards beyond the aesthetic, as it can reinforce player status, like the player who acquired “The old Valor set. It was a good way to show my high ranking in my RP (roleplaying) guild back then” (Male, 15).

As our survey shows and our interview confirms, there are very few WoW players who do not care about what others are wearing. They mostly notice it in cities, even though it is always present as a way of forming an opinion other players. Our interviewees talked about “fashion trends,” like the obsession with weddings and the dresses players need to attend them.

Some of the outfits are slowly turning into stereotypes, like the tuxedos for the banking

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characters or the festival dresses for females, so it will be interesting to observe if players begin to look for other pieces of clothing as the ones that are considered special become more popular.

This reflects the movement from exclusivity (the new) to mainstream (the common) that happens with real fashion trends and turns items from desirable to disposable.

Our interviewees also pointed to a special phenomenon: fashion accessorizing as collector activity. There are players who collect all dresses, just like others may collect swords, for example, and these characters constantly change their dresses to gain a reputation as “the one with the many dresses.” This is especially remarkable given the limited place to store gear, and the player that chooses to spend her precious storage room this way is making a rather extreme fashion statement.

Apart from being a vehicle for individual expression, fashion also can signal belonging to a specific group, as it happens in real life with urban tribe fashion. There is a certain tension inherent to group fashion, as players adopt it to be special, yet the only way to show this is by looking like everybody else in that particular group so that we can be recognized as such. This points to the very complex meanings negotiated in this expression of game culture. In WoW, the lasting (as opposed to short-termed) form of organization for players is called a guild. Many guilds have a tabard which displays the guild emblem and can only be purchased by the members of the guild and that identifies its members. Guides can require it on formal occasions like guild meetings or at all times if very hardcore.

Figure 3. Wolfmoon Guild Tabard.

Apart from tabards, WoW does not support uniforms as such, but many guilds have created their own uniforms by favoring a particular color or set of clothes, and many have “dress-codes”: Come dressed nice, in “street clothes” or dressy armor and wearing your guild tabard, if you have one. If you have no “street clothes” one of the tailors can whip up a cute outfit, I’m sure (Out of Hand guild).

Both the personal and the social side of fashion contribute to offering the individual “a sense of uniqueness in an environment that was indifferent to them” (Casell & Jenkins, 1998, p.

208). Finkelstein is mainly referring to postmodern society and particularly to the large cities of the first world, where individuals are insignificant in size and meaning, as so many live in the 14

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Because it just looks cool ! 15

same kind of houses, have the same jobs, and the same kind of hopes. WoW is in this way a perfect metaphor for a postmodern metropolis: a huge unchanging world where thousands of individuals run around doing exactly the same quests, with the same strategies, and the same rewards. The choices of class and race are limited and so are the appearances: all characters of the same race look very alike. Except for the clothes they are wearing. This desire to be different is so strong that it can be exploited. Collecting and selling clothes is a very lucrative pastime indeed; our interviewee Jens earns a lot of money this way:,“People in WoW care about their looks the same way they want their jeans to be Diesel or whatever, in real life, you know. I don´t know why but they do.”

The variety of fashion in WoW is spectacular, compared to the limitations of the other possible choices. Players push it to the limit, like this player who: [Bought a] tuxedo suit for my old and grey-haired lesbian hunter. I do this because I like characters that are different to everyone else. Warcraft is mostly full of children who care about big breasts and beauty. I have no interest in that (Male, 24).

A tuxedo-clad lesbian hunter, a big warrior with a Santa Claus hat, a pirate outfit that matches a rare Hyacinth pet that accompanies the character . . . they are all examples from our survey. All these players want to cry out: I am not like the thousands of other orcs/elves/dwarves/ warriors/hunters/paladins…! and the only way to express it in the game is through fashion. We could compare the creative fashion practices of WoW players to the Harajuku Street Fashion phenomenon in Tokyo, where young people mix and match from different styles and cultural references in order to attain a totally original look. The available items are limited, but it is the recycling of these in unexpected combinations like the gothickawai or the lolita-nurse that makes them unique. It is dressing up, playing costumes in a performance that is equivalent to a cry: look at me! As Bonnie English summarizes it: In highly populated urban Japanese cities, where loss of individual identity becomes inevitable and highly dominant [. . .] this way of dressing was one of the very few which was resistant to the sterotypes of globalization (English, 2007, p. 134-135).

Fashion is our way to notice each other in WoW, to express ourselves, and to make sure that we are not lost in the immensity of the unchanging world.

Conclusions and Design Directions As our survey and interview revealed, it is far from only role-players or female players that take interest in clothing, in “looking good,” and being fashionable in a gameworld like WoW. The fact that many players spend time acquiring clothing with no value to the mechanical game-performance and the wildly popular creative parodies of Gizmopolitan point to the fact that to stand out in a world of millions is as important online as it is offline. We are surprised that designers have not explored the fashion production aspects of online gameworlds more consciously and feel convinced that by studying this aspect of the game experience further,

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designers can tap into a very non-expensive way to offer players a more individualized gaming experience.

Furthermore, the interest in clothes and fashion is something that has traditionally been considered an exclusive part of the female sphere of interests. However, our argument and findings here point out to the interest of male players in performing their identities in the same way as females, expanding and confirming the notion hinted at in Fron et. al. (2006) that: Perhaps the conflation of the “masculine” space of the computer, combined with the notion of “gear” (armor and weapons) actually regenders costume play in more masculine direction. What this suggests is that while costume play on computers may be creating more female-friendly play opportunities, conversely, it may also be opening up more avenues of dress-up for men (p. 13).

We would very much like to see this in light of Henry Jenkins hope that when feminine features become interesting for both genders, we might be witnessing some progress towards genre-neutral gaming (Jenkins, 2001). And that, like getting the Silver-Thread Robe at the Auction house, warms our player hearts.

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Bibliography Barthes, R. (1967 and 1983). Système de la Mode. Paris: Éditions du Seuil.

Bridson, R., Marion, S., and Fedkiw, R. (2005). Simulation of clothing with folds and wrinkles.

International Conference on Computer Graphics and Interactive Techniques, ACM SIGGRAPH 2005. Retrieved May 31, 2008 from http://portal.acm.org/citation.cfm?id=1198573.

Casell, J., & Jenkins, H. (1998). From Barbie to Mortal Kombat: Gender and computer games.

Cambridge: MIT Press.

Cooper, R. (2007). Alter ego – Avatars and their creators. London: Boot Publishing.

Corneliussen, H. and Mortensen, T. E. (2005). The non-sense of gender in neverwinter nights. In Women in Games Conference papers, Dundee, Scotland 8-10 August 2005. Retrieved from http://tilsett.hivolda.no/tm/Neverwinter_Nights.pdf.

Castronova, E. (2005). Synthetic worlds. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Duchenaut, N., Yee, N., and Moore, R. J. (2006). ‘Alone Together?’ Exploring the Social Dynamics of Massively Multiplayer Games. Conference Proceedings on Human Factors in Computing Systems. April 22-27, 2006 Montreal, Canada, p. 407-416.

English, B. A. (2007). Cultural history of fashion in the 20th century: From the catwalk to the sidewalk. Oxford: Berg.

Finkelstein, J. (2007). The art of self-invention: Image and identity in popular visual culture.

London: Tauris.

Flanagan, M. (2003). Une maison de poupee virtuelle capitaliste? The Sims: Domesticite, consommation, et feminite. Consommations & Sociétés: Cahiers Pluridisciplinaire sur la Consommation et l'interculturel. Ed. Mélanie Roustan et Dominique Desjeux.

Freeman, D. (2004). Creating emotion in games. Indianapolis: New Riders.

Fron, J., Fullerton,T., Morie, J.F, and Pearce, C. (2007). Playing dress-up: Costumes, roleplay and imagination. Paper presented at the Philosophy of Computer Games Conference, January 24-27, 2007.

Retrieved January 5, 2009 from http://game.unimore.it/Papers/C_Pearce_Paper.pdf.

Jenkins, H. (2001). From Barbie to Mortal Kombat: Further reflections. Retrieved May, 2004 from http://culturalpolicy.uchicago.edu/conf2001/papers/jenkins.html.

Roach, M. E. & Eicher, J. B. (1979). The language of personal adornment. Reprinted in 2007 in Barnard, Malcolm (ed.). Fashion Theory. London: Routledge.

Rollings, A. & Adams, E. (2003). On game design. Indianapolis: New Riders.

Veblen, T. (1899 and 1994). The theory of the leisure class. London: Penguin.

Wilson, E. (1985). “Explaining it away” in Adorned in dreams: Fashion and modernity.

Reprinted in 2007 in Barnard, Malcolm (ed.) Fashion Theory. London: Routledge.

Wirman, H. (2008) Virtual threads of a skin: Women weavers and the practice of skinning in The Sims. In Proceedings of The Player Conference. Copenhagen: IT University of Copenhagen.

Wolf, M. J. P. & Perron, B. (2003). The video game theory reader. New York: Routledge.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

Knee-High Boots and Six-Pack Abs: Autoethnographic Reflections on Gender and Technology in Second Life

By Delia Dumitrica and Georgia Gaden, University of Calgary, Canada

Abstract In this paper, we explore the experience and performance of gender online in Second Life, currently one of the most popular virtual world platforms. Based on two collaborative autoethnographic projects, we propose that gender has to be explored at the intersection between our own situated perspective and the vision embedded in the social and technical infrastructure of the virtual world. For us, the visual element of a 3D world further frames the representation and performance of gender, while technical skill becomes a crucial factor in constructing our ability to play with this performance. As we recollect and interrogate our own experiences in SL, we argue that the relation between gender and virtual worlds is a complex and multifaceted one, proposing our positioned account of experiencing this relation. It is critical, we suggest, that studies of mediated experience in virtual worlds take into account the position of the researcher in ‘real’ life (IRL) as well as the dominant discourses of the environment they are immersed in. In this we must also be critical, of ourselves, our assumptions, as well as the environment itself.

Keywords: autoethnography; gender performance; Second Life; virtual worlds.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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Knee-High Boots and Six-Pack Abs: Autoethnographic Reflections on Gender and Technology in Second Life

By Delia Dumitrica and Georgia Gaden, University of Calgary, Canada

On October 2007, we attended John Lester’s engaging presentation on the popular virtual environment Second Life (SL) at the Association of Internet Researchers annual conference.

Lester came as a representative of Linden Labs, the company who created and who maintains SL. In his presentation, he demonstrated examples of the potential for education, collaboration, and research and creativity in SL. Here was a virtual reproduction of the Sistine Chapel – unlike in real life however, you could fly and perch yourself close to the famous ceiling – followed by recreations of ancient Egyptian temples created, as Lester pointed out, faithful to the archaeological suggestions of their ‘real life’ remains. “SL inhabitants,” said Lester, “don’t recreate the physical world, nor something abstract. They create Alice in Wonderland, sort of oasis of the surreal.” As scholars interested in deconstructing social categories, we were quite curious about the representation of gender in such an ‘oasis of the surreal.’ Later the same day, an entire panel devoted to SL scholarship further piqued our interest. Would this world that excited academics and technology advocates alike bring us a new way of thinking about and performing our gender?

Without a specific purpose or goal for its inhabitants, SL is consistently positioned as a world, as a creative environment - “less a game than, well, a second life, and the ‘player’ is the resident or citizen with limitless choices as to how he or she wants to spend time, rather than a competitor on some virtual global playing field” (Ludlow & Wallace 2007, p. 10) (see also McKeon & Wyche, 2005). SL boasts some 13 million created accounts of which over a million logged in the last two months as of April 2008 (SL Economic Statistics Website). The educational potential of SL has been one of the main products marketed by Linden Labs, enticing educators and students to use the world for a problem-solving, hands-on, experiential approach to learning (SL Education & Nonprofit Organizations Website). Several universities were quick to establish a virtual campus,1 while scholars and professionals alike have become excited about the possibilities afforded by Second Life for learning, teaching, and information sharing (Jennings & Collins, 2007; Maged N., Boulos, K., Hetherington, L., & Wheeler , S., 2007).

It is imperative that we understand more about how bringing educational projects in such environments may impact us, educators and students alike. Looking at women, Judy Wajcman (2004) has argued that we “are orienting and experiencing [our]selves in relation to new media technologies... While there is a thrilling quality to these pioneering endeavours, we must not be hypnotized by the hype that is now ubiquitous” (p. 75). As our online lives become important parts of our social experience and identification processes (Ludlow & Wallace, 2007; Thomas, 2007), just how is gender experienced and how does it intervene in our experience of these environments? In this paper, we explore this dimension from our own perspectives as women,

1

For an updated list of educational institutions and organizations with a presence in Second Life, see Second Life Education Wiki, available at http://www.simteach.com/wiki/index.php?title=Second_Life_Education_Wiki (as of April 8, 2008).

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academics, and new users with limited experience of online multi-user environments2 and none at all of SL itself. Our entry point into the world – and thus the criteria with which we created expectations and evaluated our first encounters - was its positioning as a “a real world, only better” (Ondrejka, 2004). We have undertaken a collaborative autoethnographic project in SL, observing how we perceive and perform gender in-world for six months, and then critically investigating these processes. In this paper, we are proposing that our experience of gender in SL lies at the intersection between our situated perspectives, the gendered vision of the sociotechnical platform, and the ubiquity of 3D visualizations.

Preparing to think about Gender in Virtual Worlds Theoretically, we have approached gender in Second Life from a post-structuralist feminist perspective, drawing especially from the work of Donna Haraway, Judith Butler, and Judy Wajcman. The centrality and complexity of gender in feminist research has been widely discussed (see, just for example, Aslop, Fitzsimmons, & Lennon, 2002; Butler, 1990, 1993; Oakley, 1972, 1997; West & Zimmerman, 1987). In this paper, we understand gender as being performed through our actions, behaviors, and choices; we do gender: “But it is a situated doing, carried out in the virtual or real presence of others who are presumed to be oriented in its production... [gender is conceived of] both as an outcome of and a rationale for various social arrangements and as a means of legitimating the one of the most fundamental divisions of society” (West & Zimmerman, 1987, p. 126). Thus, gender is 'achieved, not given' (Eller, 2003, p. 90) within specific social circumstances and power arrangements. Judith Butler (1990) points out that the signs of gender are performed in response to our acceptance of shared discursive constructions. Gendered actions are, according to Butler, not the expression of an “internal core or substance” (p. 85). We might take them as such (which might contribute to their power), but in our understanding they are rather ways of positioning the self within a specific social environment. In such contexts, to be successful in the execution of 'femaleness'/'maleness' requires that we are competent in the discursive practices (Foucault, 1972) which establish what counts as 'appropriate' for our gender identity. Furthermore, as Butler also maintains, these shared understandings and conventions of masculinity and femininity, and the binary itself, cannot be separated from sexuality. Butler argues that gender is produced and operates within a heterosexual matrix (1990) or hegemony (1993) where masculinities and femininities are produced and interpreted in this context, thus placing queer sexualities and gender identities on the margins, in the realm of the ‘other.’

Interrogating gender performance is thus connected to interrogating the discursive practices within which gender comes to be normatively constructed, as well as our own position in relation to such discourses. In the case of virtual worlds, where the social interaction takes place within a technologically-mediated environment, such discursive practices are part of the social/technical infrastructure (that is, the software and the social world it enables) and it is important to consider how particular visions of gender and sexuality are embodied by this infrastructure.

However, it is perhaps even more important that we recognize how we approach this infrastructure from our own situated perspectives – in our particular cases, as white, middle2

The researchers have some knowledge of Multi-User Dungeons or Domains (MUD) and MUD Object Oriented (MOO), and some second-hand knowledge of Massively Multi-Player Online Role Playing Games MMRPG).

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class, able-bodied, heterosexual, European, women, and professionally as academics – and how this situatedness frames our interpretation(s) of the environment. Though we do not claim it is possible to fully or simultaneously occupy all of these positions (Haraway, 1988), a selfreflective awareness of these (partial) positions is central to our efforts to understand our own processes of observing and performing gender in SL. We argue that these situated perspectives frame our interpretation of a new (to us) environment, helping us to make sense of, and act within it.

When it comes to the social/technical infrastructure, it is important to recognize that worlds such as SL are themselves the product of particular discursive practices around gender.

Feminist scholars have described technology as both liberating from and reinforcing of traditional gender binaries and boundaries. Donna Haraway's (1991) metaphor of the cyborg opens up the space of imagining 'alternatives' and of re-thinking agency in terms of gender identity. The cyborg itself is neither human nor machine; and, as the pronouns indicate, 'it' is neither male nor female. The metaphor speaks to the idea of challenging the binary gender designation, of resisting the identity, status and actions ascribed by virtue of being placed under the label of 'woman' or 'man' and thus recovering agency. Haraway’s cyborg collapses the boundaries between individual and technology, and in so doing, it shows “the arbitrariness and constructed nature of what is considered to be the norm(al)” (Prins, 1995, p. 360). Yet, the cyborg is also ambiguous: it simultaneously brings forward the confusion of the boundaries between nature/ technology, human/animal, male/female, and it is a final control over our bodies.

Thus, the cyborg encompasses “permanently partial identities and contradictory standpoints” (Haraway, 1991, p. 154).

Are cyberworlds such cyborg spaces? Popularizing efforts have positioned SL as “a new way of being” (Montagne, 2007), implying a universe of possibilities in terms of identity constructions and social interactions. For example, Sherry Turkle describes a text-based virtual environment where there appears to be scope for escape from the gender binary: users did not have to assign a gender to their online persona (Turkle, 1995, p. 210; also Bruckman, 1993; Danet, 1996). Since identity was composed textually in these spaces, there were opportunities for gender swapping through textual cues. Yet, “passing” online was more complex and difficult than a simple character-description: “To pass as a woman for any length of time requires understanding how gender inflects speech, manner, the interpretation of experience” (Turkle, 1995, p. 212). To a certain extent, this gender swapping “encourages reflection on the way ideas about gender shape our expectations” (p. 213). In spite of this potential, Turkle is cautious about utopian visions of disembodied gender experience since “to a certain extent, knowledge is inherently experiential, based on a physicality that we each experience differently” (p. 238; also Kendall, 1999). In the case of gaming, female characters evolved from being passive battle trophies to be won by male contestants to full contestants themselves. Interestingly, the first female avatars were built using patches designed to modify the appearance of male avatars (Schleiner, 2004). Considering the first pre-packaged female 3D game avatars, like for example Lara Croft, Anne-Marie Schleiner (2001) notes that they fell into (perhaps predictable) types of “ultra-fem drag queens, level-headed female soldiers, and sexy doll automatons” (p. 129; also O'Riordan, 2006).

The problematic potential of virtual spaces is a common theme in much literature on gender and technology/virtuality. As virtual spaces have been popularized, they have been both celebrated as an opportunity for liberation from conventional gender roles and crtiticized as

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white–male shaped spaces, filled with pornography, sexualization, and increased commodification. While the liberating cyborg metaphor remains an appealing ideal, Judy Wajcman (2004) warns that it “risk[s] fetishizing new technologies” (p. 8). Instead, Wajcman recommends that we focus on the mutual shaping processes between gender discourses and technology, from design practices to the meaning technologies acquire and their everyday uses.

In the case of SL, this mutual shaping of gender discourses and technology is most visible in the production, customization, and interaction of 3D mobile avatars. This creates, writes Stephen Webb, “a world of appearances” (Webb, 2001, p. 586). Indeed, in discussion with Akela Talamasca, (former) Second Life Insider writer, Sarah “Intellagirl” Robbins3 comments on her shock when Akela used a different avatar “it’s not you … when I read your name, I associate it with a 6.5” wolf, like that’s what I see” (Robbins Podcast, 2007). For our project, then, we were especially interested in the visual presentation of gender and our interaction with the platform of SL in its construction. How, we wondered, would we see ourselves and others in SL? How powerful would the avatar be for us as a presentation of gender? .

Collaborative Autoethnography as a Form of Situated Knowledges To address the intersection between the discursive practices around gender in SL, and our own situated perspectives, we have opted for autoethnography as a method which can connect both threads (see also Sparkes 2002; Back, 2004). Autoethnography starts from the researcher's own experience, connecting the story of the world that it presents to the wider power networks.

Firmly anchored in the qualitative research paradigm (Denzin & Lincoln, 2002; Ellis, 2004), autoethnography basically consists of a reflexive effort to connect “the autobiographical and personal to the cultural, social, and political” (Ellis, 2004). In this, autoethnography shares the same epistemological underpinnings as Haraway's (1988) situated knowledges: our stories not only (re)construct positioned and contextual identities, but also reveal the connections between individual and social levels (Stapleton & Wilson, 2004; Sparkes, 2002). For Denzin and Lincoln (2002), this method is characterized by an explicit political (and thus ethical) project - that of empowerment, simultaneously a critical perspective and an action. The overlapping of the position of the researcher and that of the subject of research brings to light in a more transparent manner the fact that “we are always present in our texts, no matter how we try to suppress ourselves. We are always writing in particular contexts” (Richardson, 2002, p. 41).

Autoethnography remains controversial in academic work precisely because it is rooted within a situated-perspective approach; and as such it has been accused of being too personal, narcissistic, and thus not reliable (Denzin & Lincoln, 2002; Ellis, 2004; Sparkes, 2000; Richardson, 2002). Such accusations often stem from a different epistemological position, one concerned more with the reliability and validity of data then with its capacity to tell us something about the way in which we make sense of reality (Denzin & Lincoln, 2002; Seale, 2004).

Autoethnography's controversial position is interesting considering that its close relative – ethnography – has been a widely used method in social sciences. In fact, virtual ethnographies constitute a legitimate and well documented form of research (for instance, Turkle, 1995; Hamman, 1997; Dicks & Mason, 1998; Hine, 1998, 2000; McLelland, 2002; Schaap, 2002; Thomas, 2007; Isabella, 2007; Rybas & Gajjala, 2007; Teli, Pisanu, & Hakken 2007; Orton3

Who is intellagirl, A self-described “academic, a writer, a speaker, a marketer, a mom, and a geek,” Sarah “intellagirl” Robbins has been active studying and teaching in SL for several years. Retrieved September, 2008 from <http://www.intellagirl.com/?page_id=2>

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Johnson, 2007). Virtual ethnographies of identity and gender constructions in online worlds (Turkle, 1995; McLelland, 2002; Schaap, 2002; Thomas, 2007) have looked at a variety of textbased and 3D virtual worlds (Danet, 1998; McLelland, 2002; Schaap, 2002; Isabella, 2007). In virtual ethnographic research, the researcher immerses herself into the online world, observing, describing, and interpreting the “relationships between social practices and the systems of meaning in a particular cultural milieu” (Lindlof & Taylor, 2002, p. 16). The main difference in the case of autoethnography is that the researcher does not enter and study people in a new milieu from the outside – the researcher is the insider. The object of study is the experience of the researcher, which is subsequently analyzed in terms of its connection to the wider sociopolitical context. With autoethnography, researchers focus on their own experiences, feelings and circumstances.4 The examination of one's own situated position has an explicit political aim of looking for the power configurations articulated by that experience and context. Taking oneself as the basis of knowledge means recuperating the realm of subjective experience, including rationalizations, embodied feelings and instinctive reactions as part of our making sense of the world. The subsequent critical analysis of this subjective experience consists of a constant questioning in relation to the socio-political context and power structures the researcher aims to challenges: why did I see/ react/ feel this way. By being explicitly political and partial, autoethnography sheds light onto the interaction between subjective understandings and wider contexts. It also challenges the idea of a totalizing form of knowledge, recuperating the individual experience as both of locus of power relations and a valid sense-making process.5 Our collaborative autoethnographic project does not claim to speak for all userperspectives or experiences of gender in SL. And, as we have mentioned above, we partly inhabit and speak from perspectives that we characterize as those of new SL users, as well as white/middle-class/academic/women (among others). As we will explain further, these positions become intertwined in complex ways during our time in SL. Through our colaborative autoethnographic project we tried to recuperate these positions and critically reflect on their implications. The collaborative dimension furthered our critical self-reflexive process by allowing us to explore and compare each other’s understanding and performance of gender in the virtual world. As Davis and Ellis (2008) remark, the dialogue in the collaboration brings a plurality of visions not only in the story, but also in the researcher’s sensitivity towards the data.

Thus, we asked ourselves to what extent our personal contexts became significant in the way in which we experienced the world, providing us psychological comfort in tense situations and shaping our own perspectives (Collinson, 2005). Collaborative work allowed us to acknowledge the ambiguity, ambivalence and multifaceted dimension of lived experience. In dialogue throughout the research process (so, during our explorations of SL and our analysis afterwards) we found that we challenged and provoked each other to recognize the context(s) and significance of our observations and feelings. This prompted us to interrogate our individual interpretations while at the same time facilitating the emergence of our shared interpretations.

This collaborative reflexivity, we argue, is extremely valuable. In examining virtual worlds, we never come to the stage as blank pages. We carry with us not only our positions, but also our interactions and our close environment. Through our autoethnographic collaboration, we were able to bring those to the forefront of the research process itself. In the analysis, we present a

4 Thus, due to the nature of our method, we cannot speak on behalf of other SL users. Our experience of other SL users remained mediated by our research interest and by our experience of gender discussed in this paper.

5 Since the focus of this paper is on gender performance, the authors are discussing the implications of using autoethnography in virtual environments in a separate forthcoming paper.

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unitary story; yet, within this story, we have tried to equally preserve the different experiences, feelings and questions.

Autoethnography – and in particular collaborative projects – have a lot to offer to understanding online environments in general, and gender online in particular. Such a method is more faithful to the hypertextual construction of the internet, allowing the researcher to reflect on her own path in relation to other available paths by following her own interests; it also allows her to move in a manner that is neither uniform nor linear, and thus fits better with the linked nature of online spaces. Furthermore, by allowing researchers to compare their own paths through the Internet, as well as the paths through which they reach certain conclusions about online worlds, collaborative autoethnographies provide ‘thick descriptions’ (Geertz, 1973) which incorporate not only the context of experiences, but also the feelings and expectations associated with them.

Gender and Technology in Second Life We joined Second Life in November 2007. After each of us created their own avatar, we started our individual journeys, keeping a field journal. A month later, we met in SL and started visiting places (mostly popular places listed in the SL place search function, but also some educational places) and doing things together. Although both of us rely heavily on ICTs in our professional and personal lives, this heavy use does not necessarily equate great technical knowhow. Indeed, our first encounters with technology in SL were fraught with hiccups as at first our laptops failed to run SL for various reasons (insufficiently powerful graphic cards, firewalls), delaying our entry into the world. Joining SL was a learning experience: now, as we revisit our journals, we notice how, over the research period, we both moved from initial feelings of frustration and despair to, once familiar with the environment, taking for granted our existence in the virtual world.

In an effort to make sense of the complex way in which gender and technology become interlinked in SL, we have closely re-read our experiences as we recorded them in our diaries.

From this re-reading, and the discussions that followed, we propose three dimensions of gender performance dynamics. The first of these is to think about how our own gendered vision(s) helped shape our expectations, behaviours, and ultimately responses to SL. Next we consider how the SL platform creates a framework which suggests or at least facilitates particular (gendered) behaviour for users. This part of our discussion is framed by two main problematics: how the platform frames our options/choices, and the role of the visual element in the production and reproduction of (an apparently) binary gender normativity.

An inescapable gendered perspective?

As much as we wanted to push the boundaries of the traditional gender binary in SL, it soon became obvious that this was not really possible for us. Part of the reason for this had to do with the platform of the world itself (further discussed in the next section), the other part of the story was our own positioning as women and our own internalization of patriarchal systems6 which we, as women, were familiar with. In the comfort zones of our daily lives, we might not 6

Arguably, the two researchers grew up in different geographical contexts. Patriarchal systems might not necessarily be identical, but they share the same macro systemic distribution of power (see Relke, 2000, for a discussion of patriarchy on the contemporary feminist research agenda).

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think of ourselves as (or associate our gender identity) with being vulnerable or weak (and, indeed, we are aware of our privilege in speaking from this standpoint). We are openly critical of patriarchal systems. However, in the new environment of SL, we felt a discomfort and a fear that was both familiar and less so: “It was a feeling of being completely alone in strange surroundings… I was scared” (Georgia, Nov 15, 2007).

“Should I be a woman? This world is unknown to me as a woman, I suddenly feel afraid and vulnerable.” (Delia, Nov. 6, 2007).

Georgia, who opted for a ‘female’ avatar, felt as if she didn't “want to prolong the interaction” with other avatars she encountered. “I’m not sure why. I guess …I don’t want to get myself into any kind of entanglement with anyone, no matter how innocent” (Nov 17, 2007).

She avoided other avatars, moving away if they approached, preferring to explore alone. Delia opted for another strategy of coping with her own fears of being in an unknown situation: she gender-swapped her avatar. “Let's go in as a man,” she told herself. “If Second Life is about experimenting..., why not going for something different?” (November 6, 2007). But, as she came to realize during her journeys, the experimentation in question was not about indulging in a ludic pleasure (Jimroglu, 2006) or identity tourism (Nakamura, 2006). She too opted for a male avatar out of fear: the fear of being woman in a world where she didn't know what that would entail, but where her (real) life experiences suggested the particular possibility of being rendered a sexualized object.

Our circumstances, as well as our situated perspectives on gender framed our process of becoming familiar with this world that was new for us. A certain recognition that the online gaming space was traditionally male-dominated, and an awareness of past experiences of women being targets of hate-speech and flaming in such environments (see for example Kendall, 1999) accompanied our first steps into SL. Furthermore, both of us were in committed relationships at the time of the research, and felt that we didn't want to invite any flirtatious behaviour. Writing in her diary about her reluctance to interact with other avatars Georgia thought about this: “I'm conscious of not wanting to offend my partner... I worry that he will worry that I am doing something inappropriate and I also worry that other avatars might act in a flirtatious way with me, which I certainly don't want to invite (thought the whole world seems so hyper-sexual to me, that this might be difficult to avoid)” (November 17, 2007).

In SL, we brought with us fears that women are and will always be targets of harassment in places that lack formal and protected gender equality policies. Being in an unknown setting – and particularly a gendered and sexualized setting, as we will explain further – heightened our feelings of fear and vulnerability. This interpretation, we feel, is informed by experiences of being objectified and sexualized according to, and lifetimes of adherence to, the conventions of heterosexual gender identity. Our situated perspectives in seeing the kind of sexualized world that we did were mediated by our understanding of sex/sexiness in a patriarchal context: the fear of being approached – and who knows, maybe even used – for sexual reasons dominated our first encounters with the world (see figure 1).We also thought about the possibility that the position of sexualized objects may be empowering (see for example the case of Gorean slaves and masters in SL, described in Ludlow & Wallace 2007), this was not what we were looking for.

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Figure 1: One of the early images Delia encountered in a shopping location.

Later, in one of the (face-to-face) discussions which peppered our in-world adventures, we pondered our feelings: why did we assume that we would be inviting sexual attention? Why this fear of being treated like an object especially when our avatar was female? Thinking about the role of our situated perspectives and the weight of the norms and conventions we adhere to (as well as those we like to think that we challenge) in shaping our interpretation of SL, and our responses to the environment, has been vital. Straight away, almost as soon as we (quite literally) found our feet in SL, we noticed how the avatars we identified as female had big breasts, slim waists and long legs, while the ‘male’ avatars had pumped six-packs and pectorals. And this was not liberating for us – quite on the contrary, we recognized this as a reproduction of, and we felt again trapped by, the expectations and norms of female/male beauty familiar to us in real life.

In an act of revolt – which could equally be construed as an act of self-protection – Georgia changed her avatar's looks, filling out her waist, reducing her breasts, and trying to make her as androgynous as possible. Soon enough, she wrote in her diary that she felt like “an interloper. I didn't belong in my free/mismatched/un-'sexy' clothes... I felt like such a loser. In a virtual world!” (Feb 1, 2008). This seemed to be an interpretation which spanned contexts - from a beach party scenario to a scholarly discussion group. Across these sites we observed similar styling for the avatars we encountered and felt similar pressures to ‘fit in.’

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Indeed, it was at a discussion group that Delia noticed that Georgia's newly shaped androgynous avatar looked so different from all the others: “They were all skinnier, with customized clothing, hair, skins... Rude looked dumpy” (April 3, 2008). Looks – and particularly bodies – are significant mechanisms for social integration: we are positioned as male or female according to our visible physical features, and we are judged as feminine/masculine based on our abilities to exhibit and perform the cues associated with them. We carried over these norms and criteria for successful performance of 'femalness'/ 'maleness' in our SL journeys. Living as women, we discipline our bodies through (culturally contingent) diets, cosmetics, clothing and accessories (as discussed in Bartky, 1990, p.65). In SL we found ourselves not only interpreting but also evaluating our own SL bodies, and those of others, through the same norms. At a university site in SL, Delia encountered another academic doing research in SL and was struck by the disparity between the avatar’s appearance and her understanding of ‘appropriate’ professorial presentation: “I think that I wouldn’t want to interact with my professors dressed like this, real or not…if I’d be a male student, I’d be quite enticed by her looks, short skirt, short top, big boobs, long legs…” (Delia, April 3, 2008). In this way we policed our own, and others’, self-presentation while we were in SL, finding that the ubiquity of bare breasts, legs, and tight revealing clothing sparked both a fear of sexual objectification for ourselves but also a response of sexual objectification towards others.

As we became used to the world, our critical interest in gender issues gradually diminished. We no longer paid attention to the naked bodies everywhere; we stopped noticing the enhanced breasts or pectorals. The world became naturalized, and our fear diminished. We had learned where to go, how to interact with the environment, and what to expect in most situations. We went on simply living our Second Life, as we now had the knowledge and the skills vital for keeping us out of ‘trouble.’ Our own gendered vision had helped us make sense of the world and of our positions in it. Yet, as we will further argue, it would be simplistic to claim that our internal worldviews were the only mechanism at work in this meaning-making process.

The world itself had something of its own to tell us. In the following sections we will discuss two aspects of this: the choices and options made available to us as participants (especially new participants) in SL, and the power of the visual interface in terms of constructing gender in this environment.

An inescapable gendered platform?

Lisbet Van Zoonen (2002) maintains that gender is an unavoidable, though often invisible issue online (p.11). Yet, as we will try to show in this section, gender was not at all invisible for us in SL. If anything, a heterosexual normativity was suggested to us primarily through the options available for creating and enhacing the avatar, but also through the visual predominance of patriarchal ideals of beauty as stretched by prevailing imagery of the binary male/female. Looking at a text-based virtual world, Jenny Sundén noticed that our online bodies are potentially empowering, given that we can write them any way we want. But she is quick to point out that, while no longer constrained by the physicality of our bodies, our online bodies are “materially grounded in the computer code. Therefore, system developers and programmers have the power to set limits for the type of bodies that can be created” (2003, p. 172).

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Gendered choices/ gendered options.

Once signed up for SL, Delia set about constructing her avatar: “A click here ... and Why materialized on the screen as a gorgeous, six-pack abs, tall and slim, green-eyed, long-blonde hair guy. I would have liked to try something else, but I could not get past the pop-up asking me to decide if my avatar was male or female” (November 2, 6, 2008).

Both of us were surprised during the avatar selection process by how standardized in terms of the gender binary male/female the start-up avatars were. The selection page presented two sets of images: the first a silhouette of two humanoids standing on a beach. On the right, a short-haired, broad shouldered, figure in a wide stance; on the left, a slim (especially tinywaisted), long-haired figure. To the left of this image, a series of choices for the new resident were arranged in two columns (unlabelled though clearly gendered) ‘male’ on the right, ‘female’ on the left. Even the non-humanoid (or ‘furry’ as they are known in SL) options were clearly distinguishable: the ‘female’ cat-like figure sporting long eyelashes and a pink nose.

Interestingly enough, any other modifications one brings to the avatar start from the standard; equally, whenever SL is being uploaded on users' computers, if the process is rather slow, avatars initially load as the standard, to which add-ons are gradually applied. There is an inescapable feeling here that a particular version of male/female bodies is established within the infrastructure as the norm.

The standard can certainly be modified: “despite offering almost infinite possibilities, the tool to personalize your avatar is very simple to use and allows you to change anything you like, from the tip of your nose to the tint of your skin” (‘Create an Avatar,’ September 2008) . But 'user-friendliness' and ease of operating those changes are relative. We found our attempts to modify the default avatars using the default tools to be clumsy, resulting in the garb Author 1 found too shabby for her avatar. In the world of appearances, Stephen Webb (2001) observes of environments similar to SL “status…is often accrued by having the best collection of sexually appealing/avatars, or being able to wield the most outrageous or amusing ‘gestures’ in a room” (p. 586-7). The easiest way of modifying your avatar to scale this social hierarchy is by purchasing – or getting for free - various body parts or clothing items. As SL has developed its own economy, with its own capitalist networks and even a currency exchange market (McKeon & Wyche, 2005; Ludlow & Wallace, 2007; Ondrejka, n.d.), the commodification of avatar features, shapes, and paraphernalia are one of the main economic activities. Yet, in spite of this seemingly great variety of options, the vast majority remain framed by a particular imagination of gendered beauty and desirability (see figure 2).

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Figure 2: Images of ideal female beauty advertising various body parts for sale.

To move outside of these options requires technical skill and the time to develop it. In this sense, technical skill and economics mediate our available range of choices in constructing and performing gender. In SL, this range seems framed within the male/female binary: body shape and the genitalia are defining markers of your gender. Furthermore, not only looks, but gestures too are gendered (see also Antonijevic, 2008, for a discussion of gendered stereotypes embedded in nonverbal communication scripts). A repository of 'male gestures' was available by default to Delia's avatar, allowing him to boo or laugh like a 'man.' If the repository provided by the creators of the world was not enough, more could be found on the market: scripts for more gestures, for walking styles, for waving your hair in the wind, and so on â&#x20AC;&#x201C; all yours to perform automatically within a click or two.

This binary appeared to us embedded in the technological platform, becoming visible in our available standard choices for avatars and in their repositories of gestures. Furthermore, these options have been naturalized through the economic production and exchange of items built for enhancing these options: I created the avatar by paying attention to the bodily parts that were available â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and the fact that they were available is an interesting issue in itself. I wanted my avatar to look cool ... creating your avatar is in fact performing gender stereotypes, materializing them and offering

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them to others in the hope that they would be attractive, interesting, appealing (Delia, December 19, 2007).

While Delia thought about the appearance of her avatar, Georgia was embarking on some exploration of the environment with her own avatar, Rude. Not knowing where to go she clicked on the environment map randomly and teleported herself to the destination.7 During one of her very early visits, she found herself inside a castle of some sort: “There was nobody there ... I looked around, and the first thing I saw was a table with what looked like stirrups or clamps on it. Right besides it was a shower with the word ‘wash’ above it. I right-clicked on it and chose the ‘sit here’ option. Suddenly, Rude was animated, springing into the shower with her legs wide open, the water stream splashing right between them. It was so creepy! I remember gasping out loud. I quickly clicked the ‘stand up’ button and Rude hopped back out of the shower again” (Georgia, Nov. 15, 2007).

In the days of our avatar creation and early explorations around SL, we were consistently surprised by how disempowered we felt in the world. The above incident put Georgia off returning to SL for several days. As she returned, she gradually figured out the technology behind the ‘pose-ball,’ the object labelled ‘wash’ she had clicked on in the castle. Pose-balls are common scripts in SL that temporarily take control over your avatar and animate it in particular positions (like sitting or dancing). In most of the places we visited, they are gendered, with traditional baby colours: pink and blue, and occasionally a neutral yellow. In one place, when Georgia clicked on them, “[her] avatar was posed in a sexy pose on the lounger/rug. Because my avatar is now wearing a skirt you could see up her skirt and see her underwear” (December 3, 2007). In these early days, it felt uncomfortable for her to see her avatar Rude repositioned like this, especially while manoeuvring her was still a struggle at times. In many places, gendered stereotypes seemed to be linked to poses, with female ones being 'demure and clingy,' while male one appearing 'relaxing and upright' (Georgia, January 9, 2008).

Our choices in terms of the appearance and to some extent the behaviour of our avatars (as important, and perhaps the most obvious, sites of gender performance) are heavily mediated by the options presented by the platform at the enrolment stage and by our subsequent level of technical skill/financial outlay in the Second Life environment. Manipulating, or even escaping, very traditional (in a Westernized sense) male/female binary and the stereotypes associated with this, depends largely on our willingness to devote time and monetary resources to learn how to make new skins for ourselves, or to acquire them by purchase or otherwise.

The visual construction of gender. Thinking about gender swapping in text-based virtual worlds, Sherry Turkle (1995) writes that “to pass as a woman for any length of time requires understanding how gender inflects speech, manner, the interpretation of experience” (p. 212).

The visual interface in SL, we observed, had a profound effect on our understandings of gender cues such as the ones Turkle mentions and our interpretation of the (gendered) culture of this environment. For both of us, one of our strongest responses to SL was our observation of the prevalence of highly sexualized bodies, or at least bodies where gender is communicated largely through the emphasis on visual signs: large breasts and tiny waists, pectorals and biceps, and clothing which emphasizes these qualities. After a couple of months of exploration Delia 7

In Second Life teleportation, as well as flying, are bonuses you can enjoy on behalf of your avatar.

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comments “the breasts, the legs and the pectorals – that’s what the avatars seem to be all about” (Delia, January 2, 2008). Recalling one of our last meetings in SL together she repeats the observation: “as usual, here it’s all about skins, clothes, and body parts… Everywhere I look here I see naked boobs” (Delia, March 28, 2008).

In an attempt to move outside of these prevalent humanoid forms and deciding to take on a ‘furry’ avatar to coincide with her love of rabbits, Georgia researched furry-friendly areas in SL (using a guidebook to Second Life (Carr & Pond, 2007)), and set out to buy a “rabbit suit” (Georgia, February 7, 2008). The first place she found selling rabbit ‘skins’ for residents presented very clearly visually gendered options: a ‘female’ rabbit with large breasts, small waist, and curvaceous hips and a ‘male’ rabbit with a large penis. Commenting in her diary she noted her surprise “after all, in RL who can tell a male and female rabbit apart without looking very very close?” (Georgia, February 7, 2008). The hunt for a rabbit suit was thereafter abandoned.

As we’ve discussed already, our own feelings of alienation and inadequacy in SL stemmed largely from how our avatars looked rather than from problems navigating or communicating in-world. The larger (as well as individual) economy of SL also rests upon this visual interface. Residents may buy land in world and build (or buy) property that they can furnish and decorate, again by flexing either their building skills or their wallets.8 As Webb concluded from his study of other virtual environments, the visual appearance of one’s avatar is, among other things, a marker of status. Clothing, skins, body parts (including genitalia) are all available for purchase and the manufacture of these items is one way for skilled SL residents to make money.

Gender sells, and the capitalist cycle of production/consumption in SL makes heavy use of this. The huge billboards advertising everything from scripts for sexual intercourse to sexy lingerie made a strong impression on Delia (see figure 3).

8

The currency of SL, Linden Dollars is available for purchase in exchange for USD or may be earned by residents in-world.

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Figure 3: A bilboard advertising skins and tatoos.

And although advertising is part of our daily routines, the sheer volume of naked bodies and ‘sexy’ clothes was visually overwhelming. On her way to check out a beach party, Delia couldn't help notice the huge billboards by the entrance featuring female and male naked bodies.

The impression they made on her shaped the way she further related to the whole party: “as I entered the beach club, I realized the billboard was not that misplaced. There are only female avatars around and a male DJ. I bet the females are working here, meaning they dance and dress sexy to attract other avatars in this area. I see the dancer on the pole... scantly dressed, her hips swing gently and her hair flows on her face. Three more avatars are dancing, and I'm thinking of their knee-high boots, their big boobs and long hair” (March 12, 2008).

Through our journeys in SL, we often pondered whether what we saw was powerful – and in what ways. In text-based virtual worlds, Sunden (2003) argued that the online avatars that we type are at the same time distinct from us, the typists, and “incessantly (re)connected to the bodies of their typists” (p. 180). In three dimensional, visual worlds like SL, the avatars are not typed 'into being', but you can actually see them. There is no room for imagining a 'curvaceous' body – you see it. The embodied dimension of 'seeing' in SL made Delia wonder about the precognitive understanding of gender that it triggered. Often times, we would remind ourselves that, after all, the sexuality and gendered bodies we encountered were not that remote from their presence in our real life experiences, like for instance flipping through the pages of a women's or men's magazine. And that, although we interpreted them as oppressive, they might be differently perceived from other situated perspectives. We also observed our tendency to take at face value the visual representations we encountered: we referred to the avatars we saw as 'he' or 'she,' as

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the line between the avatars and their typists became blurred in our minds. Rationally, we knew the visual representations of the avatars are nothing like the real-life bodies. But, like Sarah Robbins, we unconsciously imagined them in our minds in association with their avatars: “I found myself asking if the avatar is an accurate reflection of the body; or simply assuming so because I was 'seeing' the avatar” (Delia, March 28, 2008).

Much of the content of our diaries is devoted to the recollection and consideration of what we observed visually. We wrote at length about how places looked in SL, how people looked, in short – what we saw, and what we thought about what we saw. The visual interface, even if it didn’t remove the need for attention to the things like tone, manner and presentation of interpretation – the things Turkle highlighted in terms of gender performance in text-based worlds – certainly, and especially for newcomers like us, provided powerful cues for our interpretation. While we knew that what we were seeing in terms of the avatars populating the areas we explored might have little or no resemblance (physically) to the typists operating them, it was difficult for both of us to ignore the bombardment of digitally primped and preened bodies. Interestingly, the absolute prevalence of attractive (by fairly specific standards) bodies, either in the form of avatars or advertisements for clothing/skins/body parts and the equally heavy emphasis on physical demonstrations of gender naturalized these norms and at the same time it highlighted their performance and artifice.

Final Discussion While our autoethnographic project certainly cannot be generalized to all virtual worlds and to all positions on gender, two important problematics come up from our work. First, the question of the relation between gender and virtual worlds appears, in our research, as a complex, multi-faceted one, involving both our situated perspectives, as well as the social visions embedded in the technical and social layers of the world itself. Second, the range of options for the performance of gender is connected to the individual’s level of technical skill. This raises crucial questions about the role of technical skill in the presentation of the self, as well as in the dynamics of social status and class.

In talking about the ways in which gender becomes performed and interpreted, Butler (1990) argues that this takes place “through the stylization of the body and, hence, must be understood as the mundane way in which bodily gestures, movements, and styles of various kinds constitute the illusion of an abiding gendered self” (p. 191). Obviously, we need to know what the discourses through which these cues (stylization of the body, gestures, movements) are to be interpreted and how. Secondly, the way we relate to these discourses depends on our own positions as well as on the particular context in which we find ourselves.

In this paper, we have approached our understanding of gender in SL along these lines: recognizing our own situated perspectives, and interrogating the relation between them and the options and constraints embedded in the platform. This has allowed us to approach gender as a performance at the intersection between our own positions and the social vision (re)created through the social/technical infrastructure. Furthermore, since SL is a 3D environment, the visual element powerfully renders gender in terms of appearance. Importantly enough, in this case, the appearance remains constrained by particular normative visions of femaleness and maleness. For instance, ‘female’ and ‘male’ appearance and beauty were stereotypically constructed: female avatars had slender bodies, tiny waists, big breasts, long hair, revealing clothing; male avatars

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had broad shoulders and muscular upper bodies. Body parts, such as eyes, lips, or facial hair, and clothing and accessories further contributed to these stereotypical visual constructions of the binary that we are familiar with in our offline lives.

While we cannot generalize, we believe it is important to raise attention to the need for more critical work on the possible implications of the stereotypical representation of this binary on screen for our own identity constructions. We could hypothesize that this representation of gender can equally be a source of empowerment and of personal gratification. In our case, we have noticed the gradual decrease of our initial heightened gender-awareness as we learned the 'rules of the game': as the social vision within SL became naturalized for us and, thus, less threatening, we no longer noticed (and were no longer bothered by) the ‘female/male’ binary.

While routinization of gender performance is not the same as acceptance of the discursive constructions in which one operates, it remains nevertheless an act of self-disciplining. Yet, what is construed on a personal level as an act of empowerment and taking control of one’s life, appears from a macro scale as conformity, compliance, and participation in – and thus perpetuation of - social structures.

In the case of SL, the social/technical platform remains a crucial macro mechanism of suggesting gendered positions, visions, and ultimately identities. The (virtual) material infrastructure in a virtual environment like SL frames the possibilities of action and visual rendering of gendered bodies. The software through which we build this virtual world is not only creating the universe of possible actions, objects, and events but also defines who can be an author (according to technical capabilities). Once an author with technical skills, one can manipulate and play with the code, thus escaping the constructions made available by the platform. How gender is 'done' in SL resides not only at the intersection between our own gendered perspectives and the platform, but also in the technical skills we have. In fact, we would argue that the possibility of challenging the gendered vision of the platform depends – to a great extent – on one's knowledge of technical matters, such as software writing. Of course, things like time, interest, and willingness to invest in acquiring these skills are to be considered too. Back in 1993, Neil Postman remarked that our modern societies are becoming technopolies: a society in which technology becomes 'deified,' “which means that the culture seeks its authorisation in technology, finds its satisfaction in technology, and takes its orders from technology” (p. 71). Just as the dot.com crash that came on the tail of the new millennium at least muffled many of the utopian cries of the ‘digital revolution’ Postman foresaw, we found our lived-experiences in SL a challenge to the discourses of freedom and opportunity that have sprung up around virtual environments such as the one we explored. Taking a mutual-shaping approach such as Wajcman advocates, and reflecting seriously upon the situating of our positions, offers the possibility to complexify thinking around virtual worlds. To borrow Barry Wellman’s (2004) description of the three phases of Internet research: the initial flurry of predominantly utopian (with some corresponding dystopian scepticism) exclamations of transformative potential; a more subdued documentation period; and the third period, analysis, we suggest the importance of embracing analytical and critical approaches as early as possible in the study of new technologies such as SL. These approaches have the potential to drive wider thought towards important issues of control and domination, a consideration of which is imperative for the development of more truly egalitarian, norm-challenging, spaces.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

The Gorean Community in Second Life: Rules of Sexual Inspired Role-Play

By Tjarda Sixma, The Netherlands

Abstract Gor is one of the most successful role-play themes in the Virtual World of Second Life (SL). In this theme, player-characters act out a barbaric world of sexual slavery that is based on the novels of John Norman. Norman’s narrative comes alive in privately owned 3D simulations (SIMs) that depict settlements in Roman, Viking, or tribal style. This paper gives insight into the construction of Gorean role-play and positions it within the discourse on role-play in Virtual Worlds. The role-play was studied by undertaking an ethnographic participant-observation. Moreover, the rules of the city of Veroda (a pseudonym) are analyzed in detail. The analysis shows that Veroda’s rules aim at immersion in the role-play experience and are concerned with the power structure of the SIM, as well as with the personal power relationships of its members. Gorean SIM communities are closed or semi-closed social groups that act as real communities “living” in a particular shared online place. Whereas within gaming worlds the play occurs under the rules of game-design, Gorean role-play groups in Second Life construct their own social rules and play. In doing so, they create and maintain a vibrant community life.

Keywords: virtual worlds; Second Life; role-play; rules; sexual play.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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The Gorean Community in Second Life: Rules of Sexual Inspired Role-Play

By Tjarda Sixma, The Netherlands

Figure 1. Fictive Map of Normanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Planet of Gor (with SL SIMs Represented by Dots) on the Wall of a House (November 2007).

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Sexually inspired role-play is a popular leisure activity in the fast growing Virtual World (VW) of Second Life (Linden Lab, 2003). One of the most successful role-play themes in Second Life is Gor, where approximately 2 to 3 thousand player-characters act out a fictive character based on the novels of John Norman. Norman – the pseudonym of John Frederik Lange, professor of philosophy – describes a barbaric planet of “natural order” where men are bold masters and women are either frigid mistresses or sexual slaves (Norman, 1967, 1977).

Multi User Virtual Environments (MUVEs), such as Second Life, There, and Active Worlds, provide an ideal platform for sexual, fetishist role-play because they offer a 3D graphical interface and facilities that allow user-creation using built-in tools (Bardzell & Bardzell, 2006; Biever, 2006; Nobel, 2006). In Second Life, the latter means that players can design the look of their avatar, create visual scenery, and make 3D interactive objects that can simulate sexual actions.

The aim of this paper is to give insight into player attitudes and the rules of Gorean roleplay in Second Life. I will map the different rules that players use to regulate their role-play and classify them in categories. A secondary aim is to position Gorean role-play within the scientific discourse on role-play in VWs. Role-play has been investigated in several online game worlds including Multi User Dungeons (MUDs) and Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games (MMORPGs) (Chee, Vieta & Smith, 2006; Copier, 2007; Turkle, 1995). However, little attention has been paid to role-play in VWs that are not games, such as Second Life. Moreover, research about sexual play has often been limited to motivations for taking part in cybersex leaving the role-play as such undiscussed. Yet Gorean role-play is more than cybersex alone. It is the creation of a “shared fantasy,” or a communally constructed imaginary world (Fine, 1983).

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In Second Life, the Gorean fantasy comes alive in SIMs: enclosed pieces of the grid with one theme that depict a settlement described in Norman’s books. Against these 3D user-created decors, player-characters bring the Gorean narrative alive by using Norman’s fictive Gorean language, playing scenes from the Gor books, and impersonating a profession. The enactment is realized by typing out chat (imitating speech) and emoting (imitating emotions and actions), as well as through avatar positioning and animations.

Figure 2. A Capture and Collar Scene Acted Out in a Gorean SIM (December 2007).

To study the role-play closely, an ethnographic participant-observation method was used.

The fieldwork took place over a two-year period from 2006 to 2008. Taking up the role of “Free Woman” created the opportunity to observe role-play in several SIMs, whereas playing the role of “kajira” (slave) helped to understand how, for example, rules for slaves should be understood.

To keep some distance to the object of research, I only played a city-owned slave; when my player-character was “for sale,” I revealed my research intentions and returned to playing a Free Woman. Together with conversations and informal interviews with players, as well as reading online supplementary information, this developed “an empathic understanding” of the influences at work (Copier, 2007, p. 29). By analyzing the rules of the city of Veroda in detail, it became clear what categories of rules there are to be found in a typical Gorean SIM. SIM and avatar names have been changed to protect the privacy of players.

Gorean Role-Play Cultures: Between Fantasy Role-Play and Lifestyle To create a better understanding of Gorean role-play I will first describe SIM communities in general: the different themes, the way SIMs are networked, and how to become a SIM member. Furthermore, I will explain different role-play attitudes of players in more detail as they influence the overall role-play and the SIM rules.

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Themes Gorean SIMs all have a slightly different setting. For instance, there are Roman style cities with a hierarchical caste system based on guilds, small Viking style villages, tribal wagon camps, and outposts inhabited by mercenaries and outlaws. Depending on the setting, players can choose from different roles varying from Free (master/mistress) to kajira/kajirus (slave). "Frees" in cities usually act out a profession (e.g. physician, baker, brewer, or blacksmith). In general all communities are patriarchies. There is one outsider theme embodied by SIMs called "woods."

These woods are spaces where female amazons (panthers) reside with their male or female slaves.

Figures 3 and 4. SIMs Depicting a Viking Style Village and Wagon Camp (July 2008).

Networked Player Groups Gorean SIMs are also part of a networked subculture that stretches throughout Second Life. Some SIM communities fight each other using scripted 3D weapons and health meters, while others are allies. Typically, female panther groups fight with patriarchal male communities; while in some SIMs they live together in peace and harmony. At the same time, “open to all” role-play events are organized, such as tournaments, “blood auctions” – where a player-character can bring out a bid on a slave and gain the right to “open” (deflower) the slave in role-play – and discussions about role-play.

Membership Gorean SIM communities are either closed player groups, protected against non-members by an invisible wall, or semi-closed, open to Gorean role-players from other SIMs and/or newcomers wearing a visitor tag. Due to the tightening of the Terms of Service by Linden Lab, which encourages the reporting of offensive content, SIMs are increasingly closed to nonmembers. SIM communities – called “Homestones” after the founding stones that symbolize loyalty to the city - can be joined in two ways. Players acting a Free can apply for citizenship by filling in an application form that inquires after, among other things, their knowledge of the Norman narrative. And players wanting to play a slave (kajira/kajirus) can walk their avatar into a settlement and go through an initiation rite where collaring (and sometimes branding) is acted 7

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out. The collaring ritual is the act of placing a collar around an avatar’s neck, turning him or her into a slave. Consequently, the player becomes a city slave. After joining the SIM community, players are added to the SIM group, thus allowing them access to certain buildings and group communication channels. Slaves, subsequently, go through an intensive training phase where they learn the basics of the submissive role: general communication etiquette (e.g. how to address a Free), performing ritual “drink serves” of Gorean beverages, emoting household chores (several obliged per week), and giving “City tours” (explaining the layout to visitors). Often players earn symbolic avatar clothing after having completed a certain phase.

Attitudes Towards Role-Play The various Gorean SIMs not only have a different setting, they also have a particular role-play culture depending on the attitudes of the players and the composition of the group.

Although these attitudes are on a continuum and often change over time, there are essential differences in approaching the play. Players with a fantasy role-play orientation (so called “roleplayers”) see their participation more as acting in a fantasy world, whereas players with a lifestyle orientation (“lifestylers”) see it is a way to express their sexual identity and conservative views on gender roles. A further subgroup includes role-players who are involved in real life (RL) BDSM (bondage/discipline, dominance/submission and sadism/masochism). The different attitudes are articulated by the following player statements, which were expressed during spontaneous in-world conversations about role-playing.

Jerome (Dutch, male, roleplayer): … [sic] just like to roleplay [,] it is a way to get away. like a movie except your [sic] the star. (conversation in Instant Message, January 2008).

Heralda (USA, female, lifestyler): There are some goreans who are lifestylers. [….] If they are properly trained by the book, and able to see beneath the fiction and fantasy there are real ideals, the Master slave [relationship], comes from what many thing [think] of as the Natural Order...which stems [from] the years and years of culture and history on earth. Woman being subseviant [sic] to Men. Men being stronger them [than] Women. (conversation in local chat, January 2008).

Thura (USA, female, BDSM-er): […] gor is rp for me - i dont think we [player and boyfriend] could ever really live out a gorean lifestyle like in the books or even here in SL... i can be a slave here [,] where in rl i am only submissive - still have a say, still have my rights. (conversation in Instant Message, April 2008).

Lifestyle Versus BDSM Although many lifestylers do not see themselves as part of the BDSM culture, the Gorean Master/slave theme (M/s) can be seen as the online performance of a Total Power Exchange (TPE) relationship. In real life TPE relationships, the BDSM interests are a basis for the entire relationship and not limited to taking part in “scenes” (pre-scripted sexual interactions). Dancer, 8

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Moser, and Kleinplatz (2006) describe TPE relations as “consensual non-consent,” pointing out that both owner (master/mistress) and slave agree to the general power difference (p. 84). For Gorean lifestylers, the sexual domination of women is part of the larger idea of men being biologically predestined to play a leading role in public and private life. Henceforth, they believe a patriarchal society is the logical result of natural sex differences. This conviction is not necessarily held by all BDSM-ers. Research by Cross and Matheson (2006) using internet news groups revealed that BDSM-ers score higher on pro-feminist attitudes – such as breaking free of traditional gender roles - than non-BDSM-ers (p. 146). Moreover they showed that participants in “virtual” BDSM (i.e., chatrooms) are comparable to “real life” BDSM-ers (p. 133). Similarly many Gorean lifestylers in SL have been active in textual, 2D and 3D Gorean chat environments, in some cases for over ten years. Some of them have real-life ties with other lifestylers, others are (or have been) involved in a Gorean M/s relation. Many SL lifestylers from the USA and UK have stated that they are in contact with other Goreans, attending conferences or meeting regularly in resorts.

Lifestyle Attitudes The beliefs of lifestylers influence their attitude towards role-play greatly. In general, lifestylers see their participation in Gorean role-play not as performing or acting. They experience their character as a manifestation of themselves and as themselves they interact with others. The following player statements express this.

Calhoun (USA, male): SL is not a total game to me i do not go ooc [Out Of Character] i am Calhoun Calhoun is me. (conversation in local chat, April 2008).

Jewel (UK, female): […] i do like the rp but i'm more imersed [sic] than that, i don’t play like a game its prettyy [sic] real for me. (conversation in Instant Message, May 2008).

Junius (USA, male): I do not make believe I ride a tarn [virtual Gorean bird] or capture free women...

I do pretend I am with some folks and interacting with them physically, sometimes intimately. (conversation in Instant Message, January 2008).

As a consequence of this view, some players do not take part in the fighting game or enact a profession. Yet they do engage in role-play such as “pretending to drink,” “watching a kajira dance,” or “traveling by boat.” Other lifestylers are participating in more creative play such as creating storylines. In general, the attitude of lifestylers to their play is one of “being there” or “being the character.” Several authors define the identification with a (virtual) character as closely related to the concept of immersion (Ermi & Mäyrä, 2005; Harviainen, 2003).

Moreover, total immersion is similar to the experience of presence. Ermi and Mäyrä (2005) define presence as: “the psychological experience of non-mediation, i.e. the sense of being in a world generated by the computer instead of just using the computer” (p. 4). Lifestylers have a highly immersive attitude towards their play and use immersion and presence to interact intensely with players with a similar attitude.

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Fantasy Attitudes The players on the other side of the continuum - the fantasy role-players - are more comparable to role-players such as those creatively acting out a role in MMORPGs. The play of these players has been described by several authors in terms of pretend play (Fron, Fullerton, Ford Morie & Pierce, 2007) or improvisation theatre (Copier, 2007; Turkle, 1995; Mortensen, 2007). For fantasy role-players in SL Gor, TPE is not the core attraction. The creation of a fictive character in an imaginary world (often with a detailed “life story” written in the player’s profile), is the main attraction for many of these players. The following statements express this.

Camilla (Australia, female): Its got so little to do with slavery to me [….] its a game its fun its being a character.” (conversation in Instant Message, October 2007).

Scarface (Belgium, male): [I am a] role player i don't believe in gorean lifestyle or the philosophy to me it's a fantasy world. (conversation in Instant Message, April 2008).

In general, the play of fantasy role-players in Gor is more of a theatrical nature. As such, it is related to performative role-play in other “imaginary-entertainment environments” such as Live Action Role-Playing games (LARPs) (Mackay, 2001, p. 29). Michelle Nephew (2006) has argued that online role-playing in general is “a performative activity based on erotic desire,” and, in particular, the acting out of male sexual fantasies (p. 132). For some players, the general sexual libertarianism in Gor (e.g. swinging, polyamory, homo and bi-sexuality, and more) is indeed a major motivation. This acting out of sexual fantasies is not only attractive for male players, but also to female players, as is clearly illustrated by this statement.

Sagan (USA, female): I can be open and flirty and completely flippantly whorey without any bad happening all the things you want to do in rl but are too proper or shy to do. (conversation in Instant Message, June 2008).

SIM Cultures and Rules As a consequence of the major role-play attitudes described above, each SIM community has its own distinctive way of interpreting the Norman narrative. A common accusation heard by more lifestyle oriented player groups is that other SIM communities are “Disney Gor,” while they themselves play “by the books.” An example of such a difference of opinion is that a player acting out a female mercenary will not be tolerated in a lifestyle oriented SIM, as the role is not described in Norman’s books. The different attitudes are also reflected in the consensuality rules

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of a SIM. Consensuality is very important in real life BDSM (Wiseman, 1996). Often safewords are used to be able to state limits during sessions; in TPE relations the use of safewords is not usual (Dancer et al., 2006). For instance, some SIMs have a “force collar” policy. Thus, a player acting as a Free can – under certain circumstances – be forced to wear a collar and take up the role of slave. Other SIMs stress the importance of consensuality, and have a law stating that before acting out a sexual or violent scene, permission – given out of character in private Instant Message – is needed from both players. These BDSM oriented SIMs are a minority. From the first fifty SIMS, as listed on the site of Gorean.us, only seven have explicit rules about consensuality.

In conclusion, player attitudes greatly influence the way the Gorean narrative is acted out.

From the different approaches of fantasy role-players and lifestylers emerge distinct ideas on creative play and social interaction. Insight into player attitudes also provides a better understanding of SIM rules. I will now describe in greater detail how Gorean role-play is constructed by analyzing the rules of Veroda and classifying them into groups with certain objectives.

Case Study: Rules of the City of Veroda

Figure 5. A Kajira Dances Before the Free Men of Veroda (June 2007).

The city of Veroda is a popular SIM – among the top ten most popular for over a year – with a lively role-play community and a commonplace city theme. Its players are a mix of “roleplayers” and “lifestylers,” although the rules express a tendency towards a lifestyle attitude.

The rules comprise approximately 4,500 words and are made by the SIM owners, elaborating on existing rules from other SIMs. They are automatically delivered upon entering the SIM. 11

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Veroda's rules (as of July 2007) start with a general description of the Norman narrative and the city theme of the SIM. They state guidelines for visitors and the names and positions of important player-characters, such as the moderator. The actual rule section consists of several main categories, namely common laws, rules for combat, laws for Free Women, and laws for slaves. There is no separate category for Free Men (FM), which underlines the power position of male player-characters.

Common Laws The common laws start with rules of conduct concerning the role-play for all playercharacters residing in Veroda or visiting from other SIMs. In the public chat channel, Out Of Character (OOC) speech (talking as the person behind the role) is discouraged and chat language (using abbreviations like LOL) is forbidden. OOC â&#x20AC;&#x153;dramaâ&#x20AC;? - real life animosity expressed in role-play - is not tolerated. Furthermore there are rules about what caste roles are allowed (e.g., assassins) and how a player can enter a certain caste. Besides rules of conduct and rules about roles, there are several laws about conflict resolution (e.g., what steps to take and who has ruling power). Moreover, the punishment for certain role-play crimes, such as vandalism, are described (e.g. banishment from the SIM and death by impaling). In general, the common laws of Veroda are concerned with keeping the role-play illusion alive and defining the limits in dramatic action (enactment). They also set standards for resolving role-play disputes among players, and they explain the power structure of the SIM.

Figure 6. OOC and Drama Rules on the Wall of the Slave Kennel in Veroda (May 2007).

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Combat Rules The combat rules state the laws for player interaction during a fight. They list the allowed weapons, the used health meter, and the ratio of attacking player-characters compared to SIM player-characters (2:1), as well as several rules of conduct concerning the role-play (e.g., realistic actions). It is usual that fights are logged and “kills” are validated by moderators of both parties.

This is also the case with other captures and collarings. In short, combat rules determine the interaction limits of the fighting game that is part of the overall role-play. As there is no fixed outcome (as in Person-versus-Person fighting in MMORPGs), these rules set standards for winning and losing.

Free Women Rules The laws describing the role of Free Women (FW) are predominantly etiquette rules: rules about avatar clothing (modest, including wearing a veil), about acceptable locations that can be frequented (e.g., not the tavern) and about how to behave (not showing any sexual excitement in public chat). Moreover, there are rules that are concerned with the role-play interaction between FW and other player-characters. Examples are rules about force collaring (e.g., a FM saving a FW’s life is allowed to force collar her) and rules according to sexual roleplay (e.g., consensuality between Frees is a prerequisite). Summing up: laws and etiquette rules for Free Women aim to emphasize the “natural order” of the social relations between men and women. They also are a description of the player’s duties and rights in role-play.

Figure 7. A Veiled Free Woman from Veroda (used with author’s permission, May 2007).

Slave Rules The laws for slaves are the most extensive of all categories. The first seven articles (of twenty four) are about the possession of slaves: they describe, among others, how to make voluntary ownership of the player-character official – slaves choose their owner, submitting to one player-character. Moreover, they determine the extent of the role-play power of the owner (a slave may be used, disposed of, and destroyed). Other rules are concerned with the punishment 13

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of slaves (by any Free) and etiquette rules (e.g., slaves must ask permission to leave). Also the training levels for female slaves (expressed by silk colors) are described as well as the allowed roles for male slaves (e.g., fighting slave, pleasure slave). There is only one rule concerned with the role-play of sex (called “furring”). This article describes that “white silks” (virgins) can not be forced into sexual play by players other than their owner. To sum up, slave laws can be seen as the rules concerned with participation in online TPE. The slave rules about etiquette are aimed at the establishment of status difference in role-play (Cross & Matheson, 2006).

Figure 8. A Master and His Slave (used with author’s permission, June 2007).

In conclusion, the rules of Veroda can be classified under the following objectives: • keeping the role-play illusion alive; • defining limits of dramatic action; • determining the fighting interaction; • explaining the power structure; • creating status difference; and • setting standards for ownership.

Unwritten Rules to Guide Violent Play Rules about torture are not found in the laws of Veroda. Role-play subjects, such as dealing with violent play (e.g., nonconsensual torture or rape), are discussed Second Life-wide in meetings and on online forums. Consequently certain norms have emerged by which players deal with the usual lack of limits to violent play. Firstly, some players add role-play limits in their profile by stating explicitly things like, “no mutilation, no rape, no more than three days force collar.” Secondly, play developing into an unwanted direction can be stopped by writing the code phrase “Fade To Black” in public chat. This stops the scene whereupon the point of continuation is discussed OOC so certain parts of the scenario are skipped but the storyline remains intact. As a result, comfort zones are created in which players can engage in risky play without having to discuss the scene beforehand. The disadvantage of this strategy is that inexperienced players can 14

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get involved in violent play without knowing the codes to safeguard their own limits. Therefore some players will avoid unconsensual violent play on the whole by asking a player’s permission in private Instant Messaging (IM) beforehand.

The case of the city of Veroda reveals that SIM rules can be very elaborate and consist of different rule categories. In general, it can be said that they encourage immersion in the roleplay, define limits of dramatic action, control the fighting game, and in general, regulate the fantasy role-play. Furthermore Veroda’s rules are concerned with the power structure of the SIM, as well as with personal power relationships of the SIM members. The latter type of rules can be regarded as social rules of conduct and guidelines for participation in TPE. Hence, the rules of Veroda reflect the nature of Gorean role-play, which is a mix of fantasy role-play and M/s play in a paternalistic context. The length and content of the rules for slaves shows Veroda's tendency towards a lifestyle orientation. Thus, the power of an owner over his/her slave is farreaching and even the power of any Free over any slave is large. Moreover, the extensive training points at an immersive attitude towards the play. In the larger context of Second Life Gor, norms have emerged that set parameters for violent play.

Gorean Role-Play Positioned in Relation to Role-Play in Gaming Worlds In research concerning MMORPGs, it has frequently been stated that role-play groups should be seen as social communities. Player groups have been called persistent “communities of play” because they are characterized by a strong group cohesion, as for example when they collectively traverse play environments (Pearce, 2007, p. 311). Similarly, they have been defined as “tightly knit social networks,” as players socially interact beyond the gameworld through forums and the like (Copier, 2007, p. 33). But what exactly is an online community? Howard Rheingold (1994) described early virtual communities as “cultural aggregations that emerge when enough people bump into each other often enough in cyberspace” (Rheingold, in Preece & Maloney-Krichmar, 2003, p. 1). About ten years later, Lazar and Preece (2002) define an online community as “a set of users who communicate using computer-mediated communication and have common interests, shared goals, and shared resources” (p. 3). The problem with the latter definition is that it leaves out the aspect of a shared space (spatial or symbolic). In doing so, it reflects the idea that online communities are somehow in contrast with geographic communities (Preece & Maloney-Krichmar). Chee et al. (2006) call this stance the “real/virtual community dichotomy” (p. 160). They argue that player groups in MMORPGs are “no less real than communities in the world of flesh-and-blood,” since their social interaction is real and difficult to describe in terms of “fantasy” and “play” (Chee et al., pp. 160-161). The Oxford Dictionary of English does not mention a division between real or online communities in its definition of community forms. It defines any human community in three different ways: firstly, as a group of people living together in one place; secondly as a group of people having a common religion, race, profession or other particular characteristic; and thirdly, as the condition of sharing certain attitudes and interests (2003, p. 350). In all three ways, Gorean role-play groups (in SIMs) can be seen as communities. Firstly, they “live” in the same place (at least for the hours they are online); secondly, they have a particular characteristic in common (they are role-players in SL Gor); and lastly, they share certain interests that gives them a sense of community (the interest in acting out the Gorean fantasy). The idea that Gorean SIM communities are real communities living in a particular shared place is also supported by the elaborative rule system that not only consists of play and immersion rules, but also of social rules. However, it would be too easy to say that being part of a virtual community is the same as being part of a real life geographic community.

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Further research is needed to find out how Gorean communities are similar and how they are different from geographic communities.

In the discourse about online play in relation to rules, the general focus has been on gaming worlds such as MMORPGs and the way players interact with the game design (e.g., Salen & Zimmerman, 2004). Rules in such worlds are the â&#x20AC;&#x153;logical and mathematical structures of a gameâ&#x20AC;? (Salen & Zimmerman, p. 6). They are designed by the game company and consequently applied by the computer. Yet, MUVEs such as Second Life are primarily social worlds - places where players come together to interact socially through chat and role-play.

Hence, the rules are foremost social rules, negotiated and applied by leading players.

Furthermore, Second Life is different compared to gaming worlds in that it offers players considerable freedom to design their own play. Players can do this by making coded visual and interactive objects, but also by defining their own social rule sets. By restricting access to their SIM, owners have a means to uphold their rules. As a result, SIMs are - within the frame of the SL Terms Of Service - virtually self-governing free states.

Conclusion In conclusion, Second Life Gor is an alternative world, consisting of tight communities with a clear power structure and specified rules. These rules function as a framework for creative fantasy play, erotic TPE play, fighting, and social interaction. As SIM owners have the ability to define access, these rules can actually be enforced. In this respect, role-play in Second Life differs substantially from role-play in MMORPGs. Whereas within gaming worlds the emergent play occurs under the rules of game-design, players in Second Life have the ability to construct their own social rules and play to a great extent. Gorean role-play groups make good use of this ability and thus create and maintain a vibrant community life.

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Bibliography Bardzell, J., & Bardzell, S. (2006). Sex-interface-aesthetics: The docile avatars and embodied pixels of Second Life BDSM. Retrieved May 4, 2007 from http://www.ics.uci.edu/~johannab/sexual.interactions.2006/papers/ShaowenBardzell&Jeffre yBardzell-SexualInteractions2006.pdf.

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Chee, F., Vieta, M., & Smith, R. (2006). Online gaming and the interactional self: Identity interplay in situated practice. In Williams, J.P., Hendricks, S.Q., & Winkler, W.K. (Eds.), Gaming as culture. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, p. 154-174..

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Dancer, P. L., Kleinplatz, P.J., & Moser, C.A. (2006). 24/7 SM slavery. In Kleinplatz, P.J., Moser, C. (Eds.), Sadomasochism: Powerful pleasures. New York: Harrington Park Press, p. 81-101.

Ermi, L., & Mäyrä, F. (2005). Fundamental components of the gameplay experience: Analysing immersion. In: S. de Castell, & J. jenson (Eds.), Selected papers of the 2005 Digital Games Research Association’s second international conference. Changing Views: Worlds in Play; Vancouver, Canada, June 16-20, 2005. DIGRA, p. 15-27.

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Fron, J., Fullerton, T., Ford Morie, J., & Pearce, C. (2007). Playing dress-up: Costumes, roleplay and imagination. Philosophy of Computer Games, Conference, Reggio Emilia, Italy, January 25-27, 2007. Retrieved May 2, 2007 from http://www.ludica.org.uk/LudicaDressUp.pdf.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

The Constitution of Collective Memory in Virtual Game Worlds

By Anthony Papargyris and Angeliki Poulymenakou, Athens University of Economics and Business, Greece

Abstract In this paper, we explore the constitution of collective memory in virtual game worlds. Based on ethnographic data gathered during a three year participatory observation in two Massive Multiplayer Online Games (MMOGs), we study the collective practices, histories, memories, and identities that the members of two large guilds engaged and practice. Research findings indicate that the constitution of collective memory and identity of a virtual community drastically differentiates form regular communities in the physical reality. This is due to the issues of cultural heterogeneity, the interpretation of the virtual world’s reality, the envisioning of other members ‘true’ identity, and the apprehension of circumstanced actions and events (i.e., historical context) taking place inside a virtual game world. In order to overcome such obstacles, members of a MMOG virtual community make extensive use of peripheral discussions using metaphors and analogical reasoning, while in order to preserve their collective memory and identity, they instrumentally rely on war stories (historical narratives), cases of personality checks (member and individual roles), and other communicative practices for manipulating and reshaping collective memories (i.e. misinformation though propaganda).

Keywords: MMOGs; Virtual game worlds; collective memory; persistence.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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The Constitution of Collective Memory in Virtual Game Worlds

By Anthony Papargyris and Angeliki Poulymenakou, Athens University of Economics and Business, Greece

The advent of the Internet, social computing, and Computer Mediated Communication technologies altered our perception of the physical reality, communicative expectations and relation with others; many of our every day practices changed radically. Our practical knowledge, stereotypes and beliefs, our embodied positioning in the physical and social world, and our very identity as members of a collective shifted from the local and close spatiotemporal proximity at-hand to the global and persistently available virtual world. By the term virtual world, we refer to a “synchronous, persistent network of people, represented as avatars, facilitated by networked computers” (Bell, 2008). These spaces of interaction offer an information rich environment where participants can immerse and interact with the virtual environment, organize collective action, and collaborate or compete with other individuals or groups. Due to the global availability of these virtual worlds, participants come from different cultures with different language and beliefs, norms and habits, ages and professions, and intentions.

In this paper we focus in virtual game worlds, or virtual worlds created with a game attitude. Although the elements of gaming and playfulness are evident to some degree in almost every virtual world, the main purpose of the virtual game worlds main is to offer a game environment where player can play a game scenario. Examples of virtual game worlds are the Massively Multiplayer Online Games (MMOG). MMOGs are persistent online games with an embedded task-accomplishing scenario (i.e., missions) and structure (i.e., player driven economy), where players can engage in cooperative or ‘solo’ practices. Moreover, they are globally available, interactive, and information rich systems, where thousands of players can play simultaneously in a non-threatening, plausible environment. Some MMOGs also explicit objectives of players to achieve, but they include rewarding systems, a set of well defined regulative rules, a virtual economy, and mechanisms for group management. Motivation behind participation in these virtual game worlds range form simple curiosity and fun (i.e., spent time playing a game), socialization (i.e., keep in touch with friends or meet other people), to education (i.e., learn new practices and develop new skills), and entrepreneurship (i.e., run a virtual business for real money). Popular examples of MMOGs include World of Warcraft, Ultima Online, City of Heroes, Everquest, and EVE Online.

One of the defining qualities of virtual worlds is persistence, that is, the virtual worlds’ capacity for continuous availability and ability to sustain connections almost 24/7. Persistence is a critical for the social dimension of every virtual world since it diminishes temporality and provides a sense of linear progression and stability, upon which participants can draw future trajectories. This sense of linearity and stability can sustain the development of personal and collective histories, all of which are interlinked into a single web of causality and significance. In this regard, we can talk about the history of players’ lives inside a virtual world. It is this history that allows the players of a MMOG to refer to past heroes and other significant events. We believe that the study of the practices, which assist the construction of personal or collective histories and memories inside virtual worlds, are of great importance because they constitute an integral part of the participant’s experience of the virtual (and non-virtual) world. How co4

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memorable history develops inside such virtual worlds is an issue yet to be explored. To this end in this paper we explore the practices of collective memory constitution in virtual game worlds.

More particularly, we study a case where the company behind the MMOG Earth & Beyond (E&B) decided not to continue supporting the content and code development of the game, and after six months to shut it down (an event named as ‘the sunset’). This decision had as a result of a huge commotion in the player base. Many players cancelled their accounts and left the game immediately, while others remained online until the very last second before the sunset.

Eventually, all players felt ‘homeless’ and as ‘refugees’ and many moved to new MMOGs to replace their lost identity. Similar studies highlight when players ‘migrate’ from one virtual world to another, they tend to preserve a play culture and pattern even when the new MMOG promotes a different game-style (Pearce, 2006).

Ethnographic data was gathered during participant observation of the leader researcher in the E&B virtual game world from September 2003 until March 2003. The study continued for another two years in another MMOG, the EVE Online, where many of the ‘refugees’ tried to find a new home. During this period, the researcher became member of a large multinational and then a national community where he was able both to observe and engage in collective actions of memory constitution. Our observations have also been enriched by interviews, online discussions in blogs and forums, as well as a quantitative research on the usability issues of EVE that affect the collaborative learning. In this quantitative inquiry, I used an online questionnaire which was available to players for a period of almost one month in an English, Spanish, German and Greek version. A total of 1056 players from 56 different countries responded in this study, mainly from USA (20%), UK (20%), Germany (17.7%) and The Netherlands (5%).

In the next section, we briefly review the current theoretical trends in the literature of collective memory and identity. We then move our focus to virtual game worlds and their inherit capacity to sustain communities. Then, and after presenting the setting of our research, we focus on issues of collective memory and identity constitution in relation to the ‘sunset’ of E&B and the events that took place following. We conclude our paper with our main research findings, as well as research limitations and implications.

The Social Construction of Collective Memory: A Brief Review Sociologists insist that the definition of collective memory is not easy, due to lack of theoretical agreement “particularly [in] the relationship between experience and collective memory, the process by which such collective memories might be formed, the types of events that might be likely to become collectively remembered, and the types of groups that might share memories” (Harris, Paterson, & Kemp, 2008, p. 3). On an excellent work that presents the multidisciplinary studies on this topic, Olick and Robbins (1998) highlight the diversity of views on collective memory and describe them as a “nonparadigmatic, transdisciplinary, centerless enterprise.”

Olick (1999) studies memory focusing on how individuals work together in society and how their operations are structured by social arrangements. He compares the concept of social memory to other terms like commemoration, political tradition, and myth and identifies two ‘cultures.’ The first one is annotated as ‘collected memory’ and refers to aggregated individual recollections, official commemorations, collective representations, and disembodied constitutive

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features of shared identities. This draws on the assumption that only individuals do remember, and thus collective memory within a group consists of the aggregated individual memories of members of the group. This thesis also entails that individual memories can be archived in repositories, and that in order to study the dynamics of collective memory, we should focus on individuals and their narratives about their ‘images of the past.’ The second culture is called ‘collective memory,’ and is similar to Halbwachs’ social framework of collective memory. Here, groups provide the definitions as well as the divisions by which particular events are subjectively defined and remembered collectively. Hence, the process of remembering is treated as an active and constructive process rather than as a reproduction. Schwartz makes a similar argument when he asserts that “recollection of the past is an active, constructive process, not a simple matter of retrieving information” (1982, p. 374). Nevertheless, as Hirst and Manier (2008) conclude, “the two extremes in the array of approaches to collective memory are, in the end, not incompatible.

In fact, they complement each other” (2008, p. 10).

In sociological studies, the notion of the collective memory can be traced back in the sociology of knowledge studies and to the Durkheim’s student Halbwachs (1992) who used the term to emphasize the socially nature of memory. He argued “it is in society that people normally acquire their memories, it is also in society that they recall, recognize, and localize their memories” (p.38). Halbwachs was particularly interested in how individuals use their mental images of the present to reconstruct their past and argued that such experiences emerge from their memory under a pervasive social pressure (that is, we always make sense of our memories in relation to our and other people’s identities). His primary thesis is that human memory can only function within a social context and that collective memory is always selective. Other researchers also point into similar suggestions. For example, Giddens (1984) asserts that the ‘unconscious’ can be understood only in terms of memory. He rejects the ideas that memory refers simply to the past (as past experiences) and argues that it is a recall device (a mode of retrieving information or ‘remembering’), and that memory and perception are very close linked.

To this end, he suggests that memory is then conceptualized as a flow of activity integrated with the actively organization of spatial and temporal continuity via anticipatory schemata of a perceiver. This is also emphasized by Pasupathi’s (2001) model of autobiographical memory, which states that when a narrator tries to remember and communicate her/his memories, then she/he is most likely to be influenced by the perceived expectations of the audience, as well as by personal goals (e.g., impressing others). Such influences are critical not only for the situated shaping of the teller’s memory at that time, but also on what is remembered and what is forgotten in the future. In other worlds, “when we remember in a group, the way we construct our memory depends on the expectations and the reactions of the other group members” (Harris et al., 2008, p. 5).

Many cognitive psychologists have also highlighted the social constitution of collective memory. Vygotsky (1929) claims that memory is analogous to narratives and that it is shaped by cultural influences. In contrast to sociologists, cognitive psychologists conceptualize collective memory as close related to individual memory. An example is the idea of goal-driven remembering of individuals in decision-making groups. This is evident in Wittenbaum and Park’s (2001) study where members with low status tend to recall and discuss shared information that all members know, in order to achieve social validation and gain respect from others. A similar point is made by Cuc et. al. (2006) that argues the importance of a “dominant narrator” in the process of the formation of a collective memory. This highlights the importance of the emerging roles as well as the relationships of members with a group. Other cognitive

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psychologists, including Basden, Basden & Henry (2000) and Tollefsen (2006) further delve into the idea of social construction of collective member.

The relationships with other people in a close social proximity are also important to the theory of transactive memory which focuses on memory recalls by asserting that close couples attempt to remember together by joining and overlapping their memory fragments (Wegner, 1986). Transactive memory theory is based on the idea that individual members can serve as external memory aids to each other. Wegner (1986) proposed that two types of meta-memories are maintained in people’s minds – information about the subjects of knowledge of each member (i.e., areas of expertise) and information about the locations of the knowledge. Similar to Hutchin’s (1996) distributed cognition, the theory of transactive memory underlines a cognitive interdependence between members of a group, and highlights the importance of ‘indexed’ knowledge for a group to develop a Transactive Memory System (TMS) (Hollingshead, 2001).

In return, a TMS can serve as a facilitator of group’s memory and be a valuable asset for team effectiveness in learning, viability, and overall performance (Lewis, 2004; Liang, Moreland, & Argote, 1995; Yoo & Kanawattanachai, 2002). However, the theory of TMS emphasizes the similarities rather than differences of memories among members of a collective and demotes phenomena such as forgetting, which are an integral part of remembering or the case of conflicting versions of collective memory between generations, even on commonly experienced events (Ricoeur, 2004), In organizational and information systems studies, the concept of organizational memory was an offspring of the idea that organizations are analogous to information processing units. As a result, the seminal work of Walsh and Ungson (1991) treats organizational memory as a framework that can be used for information retention, acquisition, and retrieval in an organization. They suggest that the structure of organizational memory can be classified within six information "storage bins": individuals, culture (stories, mental models), transformations (the various processes and procedures), structures (roles within the organization), ecology (physical setting of the organization), and external archives (information and documentation). However, the use of such a mechanistic metaphor of memory suggests a drastically abandonment of the social characteristics of collective memory, such as emotions (e.g. Yaron-Antar & Nachson, 2006), social pressure (e.g. Halbwachs, 1992), politics (e.g. Misztal, 2005) and forgetting (e.g.

Bowker, 1997) that play a crucial role in the construction of collective memory and knowledge.

Feldman and Feldman (2006) make a similar argument when they propose to think of organizational memory as a process of remembering rather than as an object.

Contemporary research on organizational memory and knowledge criticizes the above framework to be too narrow and incomplete and has produced new directions on perceiving and inquiring individuals as actors of a larger collective and refined theoretical framework on studying collective memory (i.e. Spender, 1996; Weick, 1995). Such studies don’t speak only on a collective memory, but also on a collective mind, knowledge, and learning. For example Weick and Roberts (1993), drawing on the work of Ryle (1949), define collective mind as “a pattern of heedful interrelations of actions in a social system.” Spender (1996) calls for a need of an epistemological pluralism and argues convincingly that some aspects of implicit knowledge are only known collectively and that in order to understand memory, we need a theory of intelligence. In his framework, collective knowledge is about the tacit knowledge in a collective’s habits, routines, and culture (Polanyi, 1966). Cook and Brown (1999) make a similar argument when they draw on Polany’s explicit/tacit knowledge distinction and propose an

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epistemology of practice as knowing in action. Their argument states that there are four forms of knowledge, namely concepts, skills, stories, and genres. Genres are consciously or unconsciously assisting individuals by providing a frame for interpreting explicit knowledge (Cook & Brown, 1999). For example, the interpretation of an article presented in two different ‘genres’ (e.g., a newspaper and an academic journal) reflect two distinct meanings. However, such ‘genres’ are not universal and differ to each collective. Additionally, Cook and Brown refer to the tacit nature of these genres, specifying that they are not explicitly learned or known among the individuals, but are rather emerging “as they are used in the context of the groups ongoing ‘real work’” (1999, p. 392). This process of ‘negotiation in practice’ is crucial for meaning construction and learning within communities of practice (Brown & Duguid, 1991; Wenger, 1998).

A well known case of such negotiation is described by Orr (1996) and his ethnographic study on the practices of experienced technicians maintaining photocopiers. Based on his observations on the collective formation of narratives by the technicians, Orr concludes that conversational `war stories' are significantly critical in the collective rectification of individual experiences and on the dissemination of personal knowledge of past events. Orr also annotates that through this process of negotiation of meaning, collective and individual identity is constructed, “as masters of the black arts of dealing with machines and of the only somewhat less difficult arts of dealing with customers” (1996, p. 2). Indeed, storytelling and conversations, are considered to be crucial mechanisms for sharing tacit knowledge and serve as mnemonic resources (Brown & Duguid, 1991; Swap, Leonard, Shields, & Abrams, 2001). It is only through storytelling and testimonies of the experiences of past events that a community can form a collective memory (Ricoeur, 2004). In accord with this critical stance, it is also evident that issues of trust are critical in the formation and sustainability of collective memory.

Finally, besides oral conversations, communities also use artifacts to represent their collective memories. These artifacts are objectified in the community’s culture and collective identity and include symbols, signs, memorials, rituals, and others. Nora uses the term lieux de memoire (sites of memory) to annotate ‘‘cultural formations (texts, rites, monuments) and institutional communication (recitations, practice, observance)…[that] preserve the store of knowledge from which a group derives an awareness of its unity and peculiarity” (Nora, 1996, pp. 129-130). However, artifacts themselves are not to be treated as mere “storage bins” where collective memory resides. They simply serve as triggers of remembering or evidences on which, for example, historical claims are based. They are “technologies of memory” and they can also be used to manipulate collective memory, through selectively remembering and forgetting (Sturken, 1997).

To sum up, the pluralism of interdisciplinary views of collective memory highlight the distinction between memory as an object (‘images of the past’) and memory as a process (of remembering and forgetting). Moreover, there is a tendency to treat collective memory either as ‘collected’ (aggregation of individual memories) or ‘collective’ (where remembering reflects the social environment in which the mnemonic activity takes place and the social resources that this environment provides). In our research, we conceive of collective memory as a continuous social activity of negotiations of meaning and power, towards the objectification of collective knowledge. To this end, we focus on individual and collective practices of remembering and forgetting, as well as on artifacts that virtual communities deploy and maintain in order to assist such practices.

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MMOG Virtual Communities and Collective Memory MMOGs are different from other types of online games, such as internet games like chess or network role-playing games like tournaments. The main difference is that MMOGs present a persistent virtual world, where players cannot ‘save’ their game-flow progress and continue later.

On the contrary, the game’s virtual world is active almost 24/7 and available for a player to enter and interact. Most commercial MMOGs require a monthly subscription and players assume the role of a fictional character called avatar or character. Each character is capable of performing various activities based on some skills. The higher the level of a trained skill, the better the character can handle virtual tools and gain access to special areas of the virtual world. The game usually comes with a skill-tree, where players can draw the careers of their characters, a virtual currency for in-game trading activities, and various social events and fan festivals which motivates players and developers meet each other. Additionally, a MMOG is not just a graphical virtual world. It also has an official web site, where the developers broadcast the game’s rules and mechanics, news, upcoming features, and events to the player-base. The site also contains a forum, where players and game developers come together and discuss various in-game issues.

The graphical virtual setting of the game is based on a fictional story and offers many scenarios, known as missions or quests. However, the game itself does not have a specific objective. There are some rules and scenario-based tasks that a player may choose to accomplice.

Players may choose to play alone (solo) or to form temporary groups with other players. As a matter of fact, the high level of complexity of some advanced tasks strongly motivates players to join their expertise, efforts, and character’s capabilities with other players. It is a common phenomenon to see players with similar game style and ambitions come together and form more permanent groups, known as guilds, clans, or corporations. These groups adopt a leadership model and decision-making mechanisms and organize themselves as a virtual community. They share knowledge and experience, organize collective actions (known as quests), and achieve a shared alignment towards common goals and objectives (Rheingold, 2000). The quality of persistence of MMOG, causes a sense of stability and continuity of the game flow, and can thus serve as the catalyst for sustaining long term relationships and histories (i.e. Taylor, 2006).

MMOG virtual communities take advantage of the MMOG’s persistence in order to construct and explore a collective identity (Holmes, 1997; Schaap, 2002; Turkle, 1997).

Recent studies focus on virtual communities emerging inside these virtual worlds and study phenomena of identity, economics, law, and learning (Gee, 2003; Steinkuehler, 2004). The educational capacity of virtual words has especially been acknowledged by a variety of researches and practitioners (Prensky, 2001; Steinkuehler, 2008). More recently, we see cases of large institutions using virtual worlds like Second Life or even MMOGs in order to facilitate cooperation and learning. A successful case is Sun's Virtual Workplace named MPK20. This platform offers an alternative virtual world to SUN’s remote employees where they can perform their daily tasks in a common environment. At the same time, NASA builds its own MMOG for educational reasons. NASA's game promises a learning platform for students wishing to participate in a game space-simulation and to engage in accurate in-game experimentation and research.

Recent research on MMOG virtual communities highlight their cosmopolitanism, while the MMOG virtual worlds receive an exponential attention, mainly due to their capacity for socialization, playfulness, appropriation of literacy practices, and learning (Steinkuehler, 2008).

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What is evident in most studies is the fact that MMOG virtual communities are not homogenous.

Their members come from different professions, educational backgrounds, and vary in terms of age. The inherent anonymity and the play of identity may result in communities where, for example, a 12-year-old high-school boy is the leader of a large community of elder members.

This could be a case where mutual alignment and communication would become an important issue for cooperation; however, most studies highlight the opposite (Kollock & Smith, 1999; Rheingold, 2000; Wellman & Gulia, 1999). The complexity of the MMOG task-accomplishing scenario motivates players to form or join virtual communities, where participants perceive their relationships to be intimate (Wellman & Gulia, 1999). In time, members of such communities form trustful and intimate relationships and develop a high degree of commitment and sense of belonging (Kollock & Smith, 1999; Wenger, 1998). New members are enculturated into the communities history and practices though the engagement on collective actions (Brown, Collins, & Duguid, 1989). To this end, anticipated reciprocity, reputation, sense of efficacy, and attachment or commitment to the virtual community are noted as main motivations for contributing knowledge in virtual communities (Kollock, 1999).

Nevertheless, knowledge sharing and learning in virtual communities faces many obstacles. For example, recent studies on multinational and virtual organizations, where social diversity in terms of ethical, sociocultural, and linguistic differences is more evident, reveal the existence of many problems arise that block communication and knowledge sharing (Pan & Leidner, 2003). Similarly, on another study of knowledge transfer and usability in virtual teams, Griffith et al. (2003) identify that the higher the level of virtualness in a virtual team, the harder it will be for individuals to acquire tacit knowledge for their teammates, and thus, there will be greater difficulty forming collective knowledge. In a more recent study, Kanawattanachai and Yoo (2007) bring evidences that TMS can even be formed in virtual team environments where interactions take place solely through electronic media, although they take a relatively long time to develop. In a virtual game world of space time distanciation like a MMOG, memory is important for positioning individual experiences in temporal and spatial arrangements, and it provides users with a sense of seriality and presence (Giddens, 1984).

The Context and Method of Our Research The research method chosen is ethnography, which was conducted through continuous participant observation and engagement into collective actions within MMOG virtual communities. One of the authors (the researcher) created a user account in MMOG and became member of a large community (known as guild, clan or corporation). To this end, we were able to study the whole phenomenon from the view of an insider, and capture spontaneous routine activities. Through our participation and longitudinal engagement with other player, we were not able to “understand the practices of all users, but … [to] develop an understanding of what it is to be a user” (Hine, 2000, p. 54).

For the data management of our research findings, we used a custom-made database.

During our participation in the setting and engagement in collective actions, we recorded any significant observations. These field notes were digitized, summarized, and stored chronologically in the database. This database was also used to store players’ profiles based on their behaviour online, as well as through face-to-face conducts in social events. By doing so, we were able to create a reference to an consistent persona for each player. Using specialized reports, we were able to cluster the historicity of social events online, and after retrospectively

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reviewing them, we were able to indicate ‘black spots’ in our interpretation of the situation and thus be able to further construct questions to be asked to key agents (i.e., players or game developers) for clarification (Ward, 1999).

The unit of our analysis includes both individuals and guilds of players. Guilds were treated as well-organized groups, able to form and sustain a sense of collective identity, and to provide structures and opportunities for organized or spontaneous collective actions. Our observations have also been enriched by the collection and study of data from in-game chat logs, game news, developer blogs, posts in game’s main forum, but also from on-site observations of players in internet cafes during their engagement and engrossment to the gameplay. Additionally, in-depth interviews, both online and offline, were conducted with players in order to gain a deeper insight on their personal views and interpretations on the game’s historical events.

Finally, a quantitative study was conducted on June 2006 in order to address players’ opinion on the game’s environment as a collaborative learning space.

Beginning September 1, 2003, the lead researcher created two accounts and two characters in the E&B MMOG. The first goal was to experience the life of a newcomer to the virtual game world E&B. The researcher soon became a member of a large multinational guild (we will identify this guild as Group A); after some time we had the chance to meet some of the guild’s members face-to-face. During the researcher’s “career” in this guild, he had the chance to become director in one of the group’s chapters. When the company behind the development of E&B decided to stop the game, and after a series of long internal discussions and arguments among the Group’s A members, the researcher followed a large portion of the guild and moved into another MMOG named EVE. The guild tried to adapt into the new game environment and for a while, most of its members seemed to fit into the new reality. After four months of intense participation in the group’s commons, the researcher became co-CEO in Group A. Nevertheless, and after about six months and a few internal disputes, Group A disbanded and most of its 124 members joined other guilds (in EVE terminology, guilds are known as corporations, but we will use the term guild for the sake of simplicity). At this point the researcher became member of a large nationally based (Greek) guild (Group B). We continued our research with Group B until the end of our participation in EVE at the end of February 2007.

Observations from the life of Group A provided us with a rich data set regarding the practices of collective remembering and forgetting among the members of the guild. Moreover, we were also able to participate in joint activities of collective memory constitution and thus gain a wide perspective of the dynamics of this social phenomenon. In order to test and validate our initial working hypotheses, we used our observations form Group B in order to juxtaposing them with those form Group A. The case of E&B Our research was initiated September 1, 2003 in Earth & Beyond (henceforth E&B), a space MMOG created by Westwood and later acquired by Electronic Arts. The game was released on September 24, 2002, and it was a science fiction MMOG. According to the game scenario, players were space pilots able to either walk inside stations or to board their ship and travel across the galaxy.

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Figure 1. Earth & Beyond Characters Gathered in a Station.

During the character creation phase, the player could choose one of the three available races and one of the six available professions. Based on the chosen profession, the playerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s character had a set of initial skills and through exploring, trading, and fighting she/he could further train more skills. After the gameâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s launch and with only few competitors in the MMOG market, E&B was soon became one of the favorite MMOG for sci-fi fans. According to MMOGCHART.COM, during the game's peak in late 2002, there were approximately 38,000 active subscribers. The game had three distinct servers for player to choose. This is how Eric Wang, E&B's Producer and Technical Director, describes the game in an interview just a few months before the game hit the stores: Earth and Beyond is the first persistent state world set in space that gives the players the opportunity to do everything they've ever wanted to do in a space game. Players become the captain of their own space ship and can advance their character in many different ways -- exploring, trading and fighting, but best of all, they can do it with thousands of other people. Players will be able to explore over one hundred sectors of space, land on planets, fight alien life forms and make their fortunes all in a futuristic world where humans have just begun to breach the boundaries of the solar system. The only question is, "how far will you go?"

(Aihoshi, 2001).

Player had the option to either play the game alone or to establish temporal groups. These groups allowed their members to share skills and bonuses and thus operate in greater efficiency especially in difficult missions. Moreover, players with similar ambitions and gameplay style

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were forming more permanent groups known as guilds. Through a guild, players could better organize their game activities and collaboratively achieve better performance in hard situations.

In-game communication was achieved using the game’s chat. Through the chat window, players could access public and private chat channels and communicate with other players in close proximity or other members in the same guild. Other ways of communicating was through emotes; players could command their avatars to express an emotional state like happy, angry, bored, and so forth. Additionally, they could use ship emotes like wave and cause their ship to wobble up and down, waving the wings. The wave emote was widely used for saying hello to nearby players in space.

During our participation in E&B, one of the authors became an active member of one of the largest guilds. The guild had almost 150 members and a well-structured leadership scheme with a commander and a vice-president, as well as many directors running each one of the guild’s chapters. For example, there was a director for the mining chapter, another one for the military chapter, and so forth. Guild members were motivated to enroll in at least one of these chapters and participate in collective activities (i.e., mining ore form asteroids). The guild also had a Code of Honor where basic rules of behavior were explicitly stated, with penalties for those who do not comply with them. Member were also highly motivated to participate in discussion using the forum in the guild’s web site and contribute with their experiences and knowledge by helping new members get used to the game’s and community’s climate and also to support decision making. This is how the commander of Group A encouraged new members to mutually engage in joint activities: New members are now required to register for the forums to remain a guild member in good standing, This is part of a better guild communication strategy we would like to promote and encourage. Squires need to register as easy as that. If they don’t, no promotion. (Excerpt from an e-mail to all members of Group A).

In late March 2004, the developers of E&B announced that they would not continue to support the game’s maintenance, and that it would stop functioning September 22, 2004. Most players cancelled their subscription and moved to other MMOGs, some of them decided to stop playing, while others just continued to play the game until its end ('sunset'). On March 27,2004, and after 726 hours of active participation in E&B space, our study continued in a similar MMOG named EVE. During that time, the researcher was an active member in one of the largest international guilds in E&B, and he was promoted to the role of the director in one of the guild’s chapters. After a long discussion in the guild’s forums on the topic of what game would be better fit the guild’s style in terms of game play, many members decided to continue playing in EVE. After all, it seemed to be a normal transition since EVE is also a space themed MMOG and had many similarities with E&B. The guild established a corporation in EVE with the same name, but with a different leadership scheme.

The Case of EVE EVE Online (or simply EVE) is a MMOG created by an Icelandic company named Crowd Control Production (CCP) and was released in May 2003. Like E&B, it is a space simulation MMOG (a ‘space opera’ as its players call it) and it uses a single server to host over 250,000 players. Currently, it holds the world record of 41,690 concurrent accounts online at the same

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time. To support this huge amount of players, EVE runs on a large computer cluster, rumored to be the most powerful supercomputer in the gaming industry.

According to the game’s scenario, the virtual world of EVE is located in a distant galaxy, with over 5,000 solar systems. Solar systems are connected through gates, and in each system there are interaction environments such as space stations to dock, asteroid fields to mine, planets to orbit, player owned structures, and Non Player Character (NPC – characters controlled by the computer). Players pay a monthly subscription to access an account, while each account can hold up to three characters. Players create their characters by giving them a unique name and by customizing their appearance. They also choose a one of the four races available, a gender, and a bloodline that influence the character’s initial skills. Characters are represented in EVE as spaceship pilots, and their skills level of training determines what the character can do in the game (i.e., what ships he can fly). Characters have access in numerous skills and based on a skill-tree that defines skill prerequisites, they can choose a profession such as trader, manufacturer and combat expert. In contrast to E&B, in EVE the skill training occurs in real time and it does not affect gameplay.

Additionally, the socioeconomic structure of the game is based on corporations.

Corporations are groups of players joining together for a common goal or purpose, and they are created and overseen by a Chief Executive Officer (CEO.) There are NPC and player created corporation, though characters can only be in one corporation at a time. Besides the CEO, corporation members can be assigned with several roles like accountant, personnel manager, factory manager, and so forth. The game also provides series of tools for the CEO to run the corporation. Such tools include corporate wallet and hangars, a taxation rate, roles and privileges, and standings with other corporations, which indicate their friendly or hostile relationships. It is also common in EVE for many corporations to join forces and establish alliances. Each alliance usually claims a territory in EVE’s galaxy, and after its establishment in the area, its members begin to exploit the area’s resources. Additionally, alliances adopt a governance scheme (i.e., democracy) and establish rules of finance transaction (i.e., taxation system) and standings toward other alliances (i.e., Non-Aggression Pacts). Such economic and political institutions often become the reason for an alliance to thrive, dissolve, or declare war on another alliance.

Besides the unique name, each character is characterized by a security status (an algorithmically generated number that indicates grief actions against other players); an employment history (previous corporation the character was a member); and standings towards other players, corporations, or entire alliances. If two characters have negative standings, or if two corporations/alliances have declared war to each other, the players can fight in Player versus Player (PvP) combat situations. But not everyone likes PvP. Other players follow a more innocuous profession and become, for example, mires. They mine ores form asteroid belts and sell them as raw materials to others player who play the role of a manufacturer. This role-playing is commonly seen in MMOGs, and offers a deep level of immersion to the game’s environment.

In some cases, this role-playing can be more extreme, and players can become more engrossed into the game’s storyline (i.e., players become pirates or mercenaries). In other words, the game provides various activities and endless possibilities of character development. Unlike other MMOGs with a predefined course of development – known as theme-park games – EVE is a sandbox where players can experiment with different game-styles.

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Finally, in order for players to communicate with each another, the game provides various synchronous and asynchronous communication mechanisms, including a multi-channel chat system, an email manager, and private messages, as well as a forum in the game’s official web site, where player and developers can discuss on game mechanics, rules and content. More recently, the game incorporated an embedded voice communication system. Beyond the official website, many players build their own fan-sites and blogs, and provide space to the rest of the community to exchange tips and workarounds, promote and trade virtual goods, and broadcast their achievements (using Kill-boards, which is an equivalent to the classic game’s hall of fame).

Others engage in the game on a much deeper level and develop custom applications that help players customize their characters, or better organize and interpret the in-game content. A case of such a popular application widely used by most of the players is a VoIP application that facilitates real time oral communication. Such applications are extremely helpful for assisting groups of players to better organize their collective actions.

The E&B Sunset and the Memories of E&B Refugees When Electronic Arts (EA) announced that it was going to pull the plug on E&B, some of the players were already spreading rumors that their favorite game will come to its end soon.

With an official announcement, the company responsible for its maintenance decided not to continue support the content and code development of the game and after six months to shut it down (‘the sunset’). This decision had, as a result, a huge commotion in the player base and in extreme cases, many players claimed that they hated the developers so much for killing their game that hey are going to boycotting EA Games until they brought back E&B. Many players left immediately while others remained online until the very last second before the sunset.

Eventually, many players felt ‘homeless’ or as ‘refugees’ and tried joining new MMOGs to replace their lost identity.

Although most players kept their initial nickname and tried to apply their knowledge and play patterns to the new game, the transition from one MMOG to another was not an easy case (Pearce, 2006). Both E&B and EVE share many similar characteristics in terms of game-play and game scenario. Nevertheless, most E&B players claim that the simplicity and beauty they found in E&B was lost forever. There were a total of 5,763 petitioners begging EA to reopen the game, even in its original form. Others claim that they are willing to pay double the subscription fee just to get back online. Here is what Eliana, an E&B refugee form Germany wrote: I am here to tell EA, that if they ever decide to reactivate E&B again, (even if its just the old client) that we both would sign immediately again, me and my brother would even pay the double fee if needed to support the running costs of E&B. What is more important is that even that most players moved in other MMOGs, they still feel like E&B refugees. This is what Joan argues: This was the most amazing game I have ever played. Was gutted when it was cancelled. Played SWG & Wow since then and neither imo is as fun to play as E&B. Everything about it was unique and soooo playable... bring it back!!

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Another player from US also makes a similar claim: This was the only MMOG I'd ever leave work early to play or take days off to play or call in sick after patch days. I have no idea why it is so addicting. But yeah, I'd drop WoW for this in a heartbeat. Nice to see others still miss this game too.

Nowadays, almost four years the E&B sunset, there is still an active E&B community seeking the revival of E&B. To this end, many fun sites exist and provide a common space for E&B refugees to gather and share their experiences in their favorite game. They also try to find old friends to form their guilds and support the revival of the game: My wife and I are E&B refugees and we would both love to have this game back.

We still use it as the standard to compare other MMOGs we play. We still keep in contact with old E&B guildmates and talk about adventures we had on there all the time.

In this, many game experts and E&B enthusiasts voluntarily joined their forces in order to create an E&B emulator. But what the E&B wished to get back is not just the game environment, but rather the ‘full package’ of it – that is, the community. This is how one of the E&B fans puts it: The people who are still hoping that E&B comes back don't want the game back, they want the atmosphere back and that's impossible. People have changed. For many of us this was our first MMOG and by now we've gained quite some knowledge about how a game should be.

Indeed, what is more important in a MMOG is not the game environment itself, but the shared fantasy of the virtual world of interconnected players. What these players come to remember as a virtual game world is not just the game mechanics and interfaces, but the communicative and other social actions in which they were engaging during play. This has serious implications for our analysis of social phenomena of collective memory constitution and to this end, we will focus more on the collective actions among the members of virtual communities (i.e., guilds) that facilitate collective remembering and forgetting.

Collective Memory Constitution in Virtual Game Worlds.

The inherit capacity of MMOG to sustain virtual communities is widely recognized by most of players. During the quantitative part of our research, we asked the players to state if a membership in a corporation provided them with a sense of belonging, trust, and help. A percentage of 72.2 strongly agreed with this statement, while 62.4 argued that such memberships heavily assist players to develop their decision-making skills. As one of the players added: Well, I wouldn't exactly call Eve a ‘game’. Super Mario Brothers is a game. Eve is just an operating system that gives you access to the sandbox. The entertainment is up to the community.

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Usually, when a player decides to become a member of one of the game’s corporations, she or he visits its web page and fills in an application form or contacts one of its members online. It is a common practice that each corporation has one ‘director’ responsible for public relations and recruitment tasks. At the beginning, the new member will be granted with some basic roles and limited access to the corporations resources. During this trial period she or he will remain in the periphery of the communities core practices but will be also encouraged to participate in daily joint activities.

Continuous engagement, participation, and socialization by guild members intrinsically motivates newcomers to become part of the community's cultural context and to familiarize themselves with the community’s language, politics, norms, rituals, and history. Fortunately, in our case, the guild used the English language for everyday communication. However, mutual engagement in Group A’s joint activities was not always an easy process. For example, minor communication issues arose, especially during discussions of complex group activities (e.g., the guilds promotion plan to encourage recruitment or colonizing new regions of space).

Consequently, we observed many episodes of misunderstanding. Nevertheless, it was those very episodes of dispute that forced members into processes of negotiation of meaning regarding the collective actions and the meaning of the collective. A vivid case of such negotiation of meaning took place during the discussion of merging Group A with another larger group to become a member of a large alliance of guilds. During the discussions on this topic, we noticed that the more abstract a concept was (i.e., alliance), the easier it was for misunderstanding to occur.

During our participation in Group B, the process of our enculturation was faster. This was due to the lack of communication problems, as well as due to our growing social distribution of knowledge, especially in terms of the game’s mechanics, rules, and dynamics. Indeed, when we became members of Group B, we found that the “cultural pattern of group life” was familiar to us (Schutz, 1982). Group B also had a central CEO with a few directors for managing the collective. Due to smaller geographic distribution of its members, most of them had the chance to meet each other during nationwide social events. The level of trust between several members was so high that some members were sharing their accounts and characters with others.

Moreover, the collective identity of Group B seemed to be more coherent, due to the tendency of its members to engage only in one type of collective activity, that of PvP. Indeed, recounting fights is a common topic of conversation among players (Taylor, 2006). Members were identifying themselves as proud “warriors” and they were frequently engaged in discussing the narratives of their past battles. This specialization and collective willingness to master the PvP aspect of the game also provided more time between players to discuss and analyze their previous shared experiences and to indicate any tactical errors.

A popular topic of discussion during a corporation meeting is the outline of the community’s history and the discussion of future directions. In such cases, a member of the community serves as the dominant narrator that communicates collective memory among the community’s members and beyond. Our observations indicate that the role of the best narrator emerges and it is situated in the circumstanced episode of a discussion. However, members with a tendency to speak loud and clear are often identified as the official narrator of the community’s history. In our research case, such a role was granted unofficially, yet unanimously, in one of the older members of the community. The ‘chosen one’ was also granted with the heavy duty to broadcast the community’s achievements in the rest of the EVE community (e.g., by issuing newsletters).

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Collective memory is heavily structured through historical referents and as such, what is remembered to be part of the game’s or a communities’ history is crucial to collective memory (Nora, 1996). Communities usually rely on their collective memories to justify their in-game actions. In the virtual world of EVE, the history is a continuous subject of negotiation among individuals and communities. Since, for example, the shared understanding of EVE’s history is the bedrock for justifying actions of fair play, most strong political corporations try to establish their own presentation and interpretation of past events. Due to the digitized environment of social action in virtual worlds, historical events can be cross-referenced and traced back to their source. To this end, player use event logs, maps, and gameplay records to prove their version of history to be true. On one hand, this quality of traceability of past events strengthens the validity of historical events. On the other hand, the digital nature of such ‘proofs’ and ‘testimonies’ can be easily manipulated and altered to serve a biased view. This offers as a prosperous ground for propaganda.

In this paper we understand propaganda as "the management of collective attitudes by the manipulation of significant symbols" and as such it is recognized as a common tactic for manipulating and reshaping collective memories (Lasswell, 1927). In the virtual world of EVE, in-game alliances use such tactics as a political tool in order to increase intra-alliance members’ commitment and participation in joint operations or to decrease the enemy’s morale and cause them to withdraw. Sources of propaganda include video files distributed via YouTube, comics and political maps, fake images and log files, and numerous posts in the game’s forum. The distribution of misinformation through propagandistic tactics influence player’s morale but also their collective memory, since some memories are highlighted as important, while others are forgotten. However, propaganda is not the only case of selective remembering.

Cases of selective remembering usually follow traumatic episodes. Such episodes can be a lost war and the unconditional surrender to the enemy, or a traumatic internal affair. Such an episode happened during our research when a member of the corporation with partial access to the corporation’s hangar and wallet stole the assets and a large amount of money. Similar cases of theft are common in EVE, and there are not integrated security mechanisms to prevent it. All members of the community felt equally responsible, but also betrayed. They encountered issues of trust among the members, especially with newcomers. Nevertheless, the case was quickly forgotten, as it was rarely discussed again. This was mostly a strategic decision made by the community’s leadership, in order to dissolve negative emotions that blocked fun and playfulness.

It was also done to establish a sense of security and partnerships among the community’s members.

By now, it seems evident that the construction of collective memory is a gradual and long process. However, there are cases where the acquisition of collective memory is forced and abused (Ricoeur, 2004). Such forces can stem from within the community’s need for change of its collective identity (i.e., the leadership sudden decides to adopt a mercenary type of play) or form the community’s environment (i.e., an alliance). Such exogenous forces arise when a corporation in EVE decides to join a large alliance. This may result a radical re-alignment of the community’s purpose and domain of expertise, since now members have to play for the objectives of the alliance. If change is conceived as radical, some members of the community may decide to leave. For those who stay behind, the participation in the alliance-scale activities will eventually reshape the individual’s collective memory and identity.

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Results of Our Study In sum, we identify four major genres of collective knowledge that communities value as collective memory (as an object and as a process): a) historical archives of past events, b) personality checks, c) mental schemes, and d) repertories of ideas.

First, historical archives refer to documented historical narratives regarding intra or extra-community events that members consider to have an increased significance for the development of the game's history. Through this archiving, a virtual community can document its history, while the negotiation of the meaning of these historical narratives support the construction of the collective memory. Examples include past joint PvP operations, elections for a new leadership scheme, and important decisions made during community meetings.

Participation in such events cultivates the sense of someone playing a crucial role in the development of games history and sense of belonging.

Second, personality checks refers to memories of individualized actions that affect the collective identity. Such memories serve as â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;narrative identitiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; of the legitimized relations between members of the community, and include attitudes, emotions, and episodes of communicative behaviors especially during conflict reconciling discussions such as those on the topic of rights of ownership (Ricoeur, 1992). Such memories assist members of the community to envision the presence of other members beyond the incompleteness the inherent anonymity of the virtual world (Ward, 1999).

Third, mental schemes are also a crucial part of collective memory. These negotiated schemes serve as a stock of shared knowledge to define common sense, ethics, metaphors, and interpretation of symbols (Schutz, 1982). They cultivate the tacit assumption and expectation of a shared world and thus help members to resolve polarization of meanings. Finally, the repertories of ideas include future actions and trajectories, learning curriculums of new players, and strategic plans, as well as norms and rules that serve as factors of legitimacy of collective action (Wenger, 1998).

Conclusion The aim of this study was to explore practices of collective memory construction in virtual communities. The empirical data were mainly based on a longitudinal ethnographic study of virtual communities in two MMOGs. The findings contribute to our understanding of collective memory in general, and in the implications of collective memory construction in persistent virtual environments (i.e., MMOGs) in particular.

We conclude that collective memory is not just a repository of past experiences, but it is rather constructed by social arrangements and is heavily affected by social pressure (Halbwachs, 1992). This means that the process of remembering is done in reference to our identity and other individuals in close social proximity. In an extreme form, we could argue that individual memories are not possible in the absence of references in society. In turn, such collective memories are crucial for the construction of identity of groups such as families, believers of a

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religion, or social classes (Halbwachs, 1992). In virtual worlds, the constitution of a collective identity is more difficult than the real world, due to lack of previously known common identification among players (i.e. national identity) but also due the lack of a stock of shared knowledge (Schutz, 1982).

Based on our research, we come to conclude that the constitution of collective memory and identity of a virtual community drastically differentiates form regular communities in the physical reality. This is due to the issues of cultural heterogeneity, the interpretation of the virtual world’s reality, the envisioning of other members ‘true’ identity, and the historical context taking place inside a virtual game world. In order to overcome such obstacles, members of a MMOG virtual community make extensive use of peripheral discussions using metaphors and analogical reasoning, while in order to preserve their collective memory and identity, they instrumentally rely on war stories (historical narratives), cases of personality checks (member and individual roles), and legitimated communicative practices of (propaganda).

In a virtual community, collective memories originate from shared communications about meaning of the past and are encapsulated in routines and repertories of collective action, as well as in community’s symbols of language, culture, and history. Collective memory exists in the medium of its expression and it is gradually constructed through participation of community’s member in collective actions, as well as the negotiation of purpose and common goals that such actions serve. Moreover, collective memory is not static but rather situated in the circumstanced reality and remains open to a continuous activity of negotiation of meaning and power.

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Wenger, E. (1998). Communities of Practice: Learning, Meaning, and Identity. New York: Cambridge University Press.

Yaron-Antar, A., & Nachson, I. (2006). Collaborative remembering of emotional events: The case of Rabin's assassination. Memory, 14(1), pp.46-56.

Yoo, Y., & Kanawattanachai, P. (2002). Developments of Transactive Memory and Collective Mind in Virtual Teams. International Journal of Organizational Analysis, 9(2), pp.187-208.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

Spectacular Interventions in Second Life: Goon Culture, Griefing, and Disruption in Virtual Spaces

By Burcu Bakioglu, Indiana University

Abstract Employing game theory and cultural studies in order to make a much needed distinction between grief play (which is a type of game play) and griefing (as a disruptive cultural activity), I argue that griefers in Second Life, who engage in potentially subversive practices which residents recognize as characterizing the activities of subcultures, construct cultural formations, a term developed by Raymond Williams in his book The Sociology of Culture to describe groups that embody looser structures. Claiming that they are causing turmoil for the lulz (or laughs), they treat their activities as mere game play. However, underneath the rhetoric of game play based on targeting those who take the “Internet as serious business,” there exists a cultural phenomenon with serious effects. They not only jam the world’s signification system and subvert the bourgeois taste by spamming the environment with offensive objects (such as penises, swastikas, and communist symbols), but also attack the capitalistic ideology by crashing sims and significant media events, and regularly launching raids in-world which result in causing inworld businesses to lose money, thereby hurting the virtual economy at large.

Keywords: griefers; Second Life; virtual worlds; cultural studies; 4chan; Something Awful.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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Spectacular Interventions in Second Life: Goon Culture, Griefing, and Disruption in Virtual Spaces

By Burcu Bakioglu, Indiana University “Some people play Second Life, we play people…” @Zimmer, #PN

Hacking into user accounts; illegal distribution of a script-theft hack; a series of grid (world) crashes . . . SA Goons, the group held responsible for these activities, was banned in 2004. Hacking of the world map to feature regions with crude and offensive names, not to mention getting one of them to display a naked, ejaculating Bobby Hill image from the King of the Hill television series on the world map, another series of SIM (region) crashes . . . Voted 5 (V5), the group held responsible for these activities, was banned in 2006 (Minstral, “Skywriting,” 2006; Minstral, “Crocodile,” 2006). Anshe Chung, the first real estate tycoon in Second Life, who was featured in the May 1, 2006 issue of Business Week, was attacked during her CNET interview with flying penises, followed by a SIM crash (Miller, 2006). Room 101, the group which claimed to be behind it, published the video of this embarrassing event on YouTube. Digital Copyright complaints were filed against the offending accounts in 2006 (Terdiman, 2007). Patriatic Nigras crashed seventeen SIMs in a swastika pattern in 2007 (Sklar, 2007). Individual accounts have been banned on an hourly basis since then.

Welcome to the mysterious world of griefing.

Mulligan and Patrovsky define griefing in online environments such as virtual worlds as “purposefully engaging in activities to disrupt the gaming experience of other players” (Mulligan & Patrovsky, 2003, p. 250). While some types of griefing involve activities that are perfectly allowable within the parameters of the system, such as unwelcome loitering, begging for money, uttering obscenities, and stalking, others require scripting and appropriating legitimate hacks to use for griefing purposes. What constitutes an act of griefing in one virtual world or an online game may not be griefing in another. For instance, while actions such as attacking other players, stealing their properties, and killing them may be considered acceptable behavior within the bounds of a game world such as World of Warcraft (WoW), these activities are considered to be griefing in most regions of Second Life (SL), and can result in a user being banned from the world either temporarily or indefinitely.

Not surprisingly, there have been extended discussions on how to make sense of Second Life or even categorize it. To the uninitiated, SL appears to be an unusual beast, primarily because it is unlike any other media content that he or she is accustomed to consuming. While structurally speaking, it is similar to massively multiplayer online games (MMOs), such as World of Warcraft (WoW), Matrix Online, and Star Wars Galaxies, where users play a predefined game, Second Life is more like the social worlds There and Habbo, which, unlike game worlds, do not have preset goals for its players. Instead, users log on primarily to interact with one another and attend social events. But unlike most social worlds, the residents of SL are given unprecedented freedom to build the world in any way they like, script the objects they create, and sometimes, if skilled enough, manipulate the actual code. Put simply, the creation of

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the world relies on user-generated content. More important, in contrast to other virtual worlds, Second Life users own the intellectual property rights to what they create.

Within the gaming context, however, Second Life exhibits game-like practices even though it lacks an overt game structure. For example, one can enact one’s favorite science fiction stories in Star Wars sims, challenge another in Japanese sword fighting in Samurai Island, or play Tringo, an online multiplayer game that is a cross between Tetris and Bingo created exclusively for SL by Kermit Quirk (a.k.a. Nathan Keir). Despite the existence of various games within Second Life (all of which are created by its users), because the world lacks an overt game structure, many scholars and developers have debated whether Second Life itself should be considered a game or a platform.1 Ultimately, because the world primarily provides an environment that can be manipulated and made use of for purposes other than gaming, Second Life developers argue that it is most appropriate to characterize it as a platform.2 Accordingly, as a virtual world whose content is created exclusively by its users and third-party companies, Second Life is considered to be a relatively open-source multi-user virtual environment (MUVE) which comes into existence through the performative activities of its users. No doubt, however, these performative activities can and do take on game-like attributes and become games in themselves. One can argue – as griefers themselves have done on numerous occasions – that griefing itself is a form of game play, one based on a different set of rules not accepted by the majority, but primarily based on humor and spoiling other people’s fun. This game play, however, becomes a disruptive cultural activity when it interferes with the daily life of SL. I will employ game theory and cultural studies to show how grief play (type of game play) and griefing (disruptive cultural activity) are two interrelated, yet distinct, activities. I argue that griefers – those who practice grief play – ultimately end up engaging in potentially subversive practices that residents recognize as griefing, which ultimately has social, cultural, and economic consequences. Through their activities, they construct cultural formations, a term developed by Raymond Williams in his book The Sociology of Culture to describe groups that embody looser structures (Williams, 1981). These formations appear to be using some of the tactics observed in subcultures that Dick Hebdige discusses in Subculture: The Meaning of Style (Hebdige, 1987). Claiming that they are causing turmoil for lulz (or laughs), griefers treat their activities as mere game play. However, underneath the rhetoric of game play based on targeting those who take the “Internet as serious business,” there exists a cultural phenomenon with serious effects. They not only jam the world’s signification system and subvert the bourgeois taste by spamming the environment with offensive objects, but also attack capitalistic ideology 1

“Is Second Life a Game?” International Game Developers Association. June, 2001. April 10, 2008. http://www.igda.org/Forums/showthread.php?s=661982960c7c40b7e02fe99c2640d9c4&threadid=30312&perpage= 15&highlight=&pagenumber=1.

2 Baba Yamamoto, a developer in libsecondlife, an organization whose members reverse-engineer the LL client and create hacks to make Second Life a more flexible environment. After noting that characterizing as a game would be limiting its potential, explains it as follows: “I believe it is best to refer to Second Life as a platform or perhaps framework rather than a game. If Second Life is labeled as a game, which it can very loosely be defined as, you lose sight of much of what Second Life is, and imply many properties which it does not have. I also believe that all of this will become clearer as Second Life expands into a more a full featured platform for development of all kinds…

Second Life is a platform for streaming content within a multiuser 3d space in real time. It describes the framework for displaying 3d content in the form of primitive objects. It also facilitates the manipulation of that content through a scripting language. Second Life has many features related to communication between users who share the space.”

C.f. Yamamoto, Baba. (2006, July). “On games and Second Life,” Baba Sucks: Sucking up the Web. Retrieved April 10, 2008 from http://www.babasucks.com/2006/15/on-games-and-second-life/.

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by crashing sims and significant media events, and regularly launching raids in-world that result in causing businesses to lose money, thereby hurting the virtual economy at large. In this paper, I will discuss the current definitions of grief play and how they are complicated within different contexts, look at the various cultural formations that emerge from grief play, the types of disruptive activities these groups engage in and the symbolic, cultural, and economic interferences these activities present to Second Life.

Before I begin my discussion, I would like to say a few words about the methodology I used during my research. Tom Boellstorf’s thorough research into the culture of SL in Coming of age in Second Life (2008) has shown that people find virtual worlds to be meaningful sites of social action, so I took virtual worlds to be legitimate sites of culture that reference the actual world, yet are independent of it. In other words, I considered Second Life to be a self-contained environment in which legitimate data about its culture and subcultures could be obtained without resorting to the actual world. However, because griefing activities have roots outside of SL and derive from other online cultures that emerge from various message boards, forums, and Internet relay channels (IRC), and then expand onto virtual worlds to form similar yet diverse communities, my research inevitably led me to investigate these ancillary (yet fundamental) online platforms. For example, I monitored blogs such as Second Life Herald, reviewed the forum threads posted on various SL sites and other sites such as Something Awful, 4chan, and Patriatic Nigra forums on a daily basis. Besides reviewing these sites, I used elicitation methods, mainly interviews that were, because of the potentially jeopardizing nature of the content matter, mainly conducted on platforms outside of Second Life, such as AIM, Skype, or various IRC chat rooms. I also employed methods of participant observation, not in the sense that I actively partook in griefing activities, but rather, I experienced and observed griefing while being in locations where these activities took place. I observed for a year and a half the activities in these locations and the builds3 that were being created in Baku and later in W-Hat. These are two of the sims that are openly owned and populated by Goons, a name which comes from the group’s affiliation with the Something Awful (SA) forums (a comedy Web site that features crass humor and pranks) and thus came to be synonymous with the term “griefers.” Because my research was limited to the culture of the virtual world and for reasons of privacy concerns, I did not make any attempts to meet these residents in real life or try to find out their actual identities, though I occasionally encountered them during SL events.

Defining Grief Play and Games While everyone seems to have an understanding of what griefing may mean, and most claim to have experienced it first hand, there is no set of agreed upon criteria that would clearly identify a behavior as a grief act. Jim Rossingol (2005) defines a griefer as “a player with malign intentions” and explains that “[t]hey will hurt, humiliate and dishevel the average gamer through bending and breaking the rules of online games.” In a similar fashion, Warner and Raiter (2005) define the concept as the “intentional harassment of other players” and note that the game structure is used in unintended ways to cause distress for other players” (p. 45). Chek Yang Foo and Elina M. I. Koivisto, two game theorists who research antisocial behavior in massively

3

A build is a project made up of smaller buildings and sculptures, all generally the same theme, which may or may not include objects that are scripted.

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multi-player online role-playing games (MMORPG), characterize it as a type of play style and refer to it as grief play (Foo & Koivisto, 2004).

While these definitions imply that intent is indispensible in the acts of griefing, and that the Terms of Service (ToS) of games clearly state it as such, sometimes players feel annoyed or disturbed even in the absence of malicious intent. More important, what may be considered grief play in one game may be legitimate within the context of another, and even legitimate actions within game play may result in griefing, whether they may be intended to be so or not. Defining grief play, then, is a complicated task that requires a thorough understanding of a complex set of variables which includes the motivations of the griefer, the perception of the victim, the actual act, and the context in which the action takes place. As Foo and Koivisto (2004) argue, this ambiguity arises because most acts of griefing are possible within the parameters of the game and the griefer’s foremost intention may not have been to cause distress to others. More importantly, some acts of griefing may be included in the actual game play, but may be intentionally appropriated for griefing purposes, such as ganking (or the repeated killing of players) in MMOs that allow PvP (player versus player combat) as in World of Warcraft. These acts may not be specifically against the rules found in ToS, but are griefing nonetheless.

Additionally, some rules are implicit in that they are loosely defined, such as game-specific social rules of fair-play and etiquette of that game (Foo & Koivisto, 2004, p. 2-4).

To complicate things even further, in social worlds where game play is not specifically built into the structure of the world, what constitutes griefing is even more ambiguous. In his fieldwork in Second Life, Tom Boellstorff (2008) notes that one of his interviewees explained that griefing has become a useless umbrella term:. He writes, “Now griefer is anybody you disagree with. It’s gone from someone who’s threatened the stability of the grid to someone who says your shirt’s a funny color” (p. 188). While this is merely a popular sentiment among SL residents, it suggests that the catch-all statements of the ToS (not just in game worlds, but also in social worlds), defining what is allowable as opposed to a violation oftentimes fall short of restoring order and stability in virtual worlds.

While providing a useful starting point, the definitions outlined above fail to cover the diverse contexts in which griefing can take place in Second Life. Since virtual worlds can be characterized as either game worlds or social worlds, or both in some cases, depending on which set of practices take precedence in the world, griefing can and does occur in different contexts, thereby rendering the above definitions somewhat problematic. This is especially true when the term is applied outside virtual worlds that are ostensibly games, in particular, when we look in detail at its application to the social aspects of MMOs. Undoubtedly, griefing has emerged from game-like practices and, consequently, the culture it generated has inherited some of the gaming rhetoric. Because Second Life is a platform in which activities besides games take place, griefers do more than just disrupt the gaming experience of others, and can go so far as to damage the reputation of others, destroy the trade brands in-world, or cause businesses to lose money. These take the form of crashing important media events, defacing brand names, and staging embarrassing events around known people of the world. As such, griefing becomes something more than mere game play (e.g., disrupting the game experience of others), but a cultural phenomenon (e.g., attacking others’ reputation or sexual orientation) with the agenda of jamming the entire system, either by attacking its signification system or the way it functions.

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The discussion of griefing as a type of game play brings up the question of what play is, and, more importantly, where its boundaries lie. Specifically, where does it stand vis à vis culture at large? Johan Huizinga (1955) argues that play goes beyond the confines of purely physical or purely biological activity. He argues that “It is a significant function—that is to say, there is some sense to it. In play there is something ‘at play’ which transcends the immediate needs of life and imparts meaning to the action. All play is something” (p. 1). Accordingly, Huizinga notes that play is present everywhere as a well-defined quality of action which is different from “ordinary” life: he views it as a special from of activity, as a significant form, or more specifically, as a social function (p. 4). Claiming that play is distinct from ordinary life both as to locality and duration, Huizanga contends that this activity creates temporary worlds within the ordinary world, dedicated to the performance of an act apart (p. 9-11). These temporary worlds constitute what Huizinga refers to as the magic circle, which, in essence, is where the game takes place, such as the board of a board game or the playing field of an athletic contest.

In looking at the relationship between these temporary worlds and the real-life contexts that they intersects, Katie Salen and Eric Zimmerman (2004) extend Huizinga’s model of magic circle to game theory, investigating its relation to the culture that games elicit. Although the magic circle is where the game takes place, when looking at games, Salen and Zimmerman note that some games move beyond rules and play to map relationships between the magic circle and culture at large. As such, they argue, games have the potential to transform cultural values.

Transformation occurs when the actual game play alters and shifts the cultural structures that the game provides. The rigid structures out of which play emerges are themselves reshaped through the very act of play.

In Second Life, the concepts of play and the magic circle it generates become complicated because of the world’s ambiguous status as a platform which is highly conducive to the emergence of games, as well as a myriad of other things that are a part of ordinary life, all of which, as Tom Boellstorff (2008) argues create a distinct culture of SL. In a sense, the ordinary events that occur in the daily life in Second Life merge with the game play that emerges within its platform, and thus, lead to the loosening of the boundaries between play and ordinary life. For example, when griefers are targeting residents who are leading alternative sexual lifestyles, such as Ageplay (which refers to activities that involve engaging in erotic encounters with avatars that resemble children), Goreans (who enact the relationships between masters and slaves), or those who engage in BDSM (from bondage and discipline, dominance and submission), the daily activities that these residents engage in clash with the magic circle of the grief play that takes place in Second Life. Kalevala Chevalier, a Goon who has an avatar in the shape of a poorlyscripted zebra, explains that even though their purpose is to disrupt the daily activities of the groups that they are targeting, they almost always try, at least initially, to conform to the standards of a region. For instance, if they are in an Ageplay sim, they will go to the SIM appearing to be sexually-charged children and concede to the requests of the Ageplayers, but, “when the owner of the land has [them] bouncing on his lap, [Kalavela will] transform into a zebra and ruin whatever perverted fantasy [the land owner is] engaged in.” In other words, while aiming to disrupt the daily activities (and thus the culture) of the residents of Ageplay sims, they do, at least temporarily, engage in these daily acts which they aim to disrupt. Grief play, then, becomes a disruptive cultural act because not everyone is aware of the existence of the magic circle that has been set up, a circle which ultimately exerts its own cultural values that are quite different than those that were initially set up by the Ageplayers.

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Although the activities of the griefers have social and economic repercussions within the culture of Second Life (some even more dramatic than this funny little hoax and may even result in copyright violation complaints and law suits), griefers insist on linking their actions primarily to notions of play, claiming that their activities target the idea that “Internet is serious business,” thereby implying that Second Life should not be taken seriously but should only be considered within the context of play. In other words, they do not see themselves as causing serious disruption within a social and economic context, but that they are merely playing a game. This decision allows them to legitimize their disruptive activities within the set of rules with which they perceive others “playing” Second Life and tie their efforts to the long-standing tradition of grief play that exists in other virtual worlds and elsewhere.

The blending of games into the daily life of SL, as seen in the previous example, renders the boundaries of the magic circle permeable. While the nature of Second Life as a platform strongly suggests that the world as a whole does not inherently embody a magic circle, the existence of emergent games temporarily constructs these circles in various regions, and sometimes across regions, but these circles may and do overlap as they are extremely fluid and unstable. While certain games are confined to specific regions (as in the Ageplay sims), the magic circle of grief play may overlap with or disrupt other games or, more frequently, interrupt regular activity in Second Life. The magic circle of griefers, then, forms wherever grief play occurs, expanding to the daily life of the virtual world where these activities cease to be grief play, but rather become a cultural phenomenon referred to as griefing by the residents of Second Life. Griefers, as seen in the next section, build cultural formations that are founded upon this grief play and the particular activities they engage in within these temporary magic circles.

Griefers as Cultural Formations: Looking Beneath the lulz Julian Dibbell (2008), while noting that the term griefer dates to the late 1990s when it was used to describe the willfully antisocial behaviors in early MMOs, and that, even before it had a name, griefer-like behavior existed in text-based virtual worlds, maintains that that the griefing that takes place in virtual worlds these days stands for something a bit different than those earlier activities. He explains that these activities now constitute organized griefing grounded in online message-board communities that make use of in-jokes, code words, taboos, and an increasingly clear sense of purpose. He claims that it is “[n]o longer just an isolated pathology, griefing has developed into a full-fledged culture” (Dibbell, 2008, p. 93).

Specifically, the culture of griefing in Second Life emerged out of the members-only message forums of Something Awful: Internet Makes You Stupid. 4 Something Awful, whose forums gave birth to SA Goons, W-Hat, and V5 in Second Life, is a comedy web site. It was founded and governed by Rich “Lowtax” Kyanka and houses a variety of content, such as instant messaging pranks, digitally edited pictures, and humorous negative reviews. All of these groups, except W-Hat, have been permanently banned thus far.5 One of the Goons of Something Awful,

4

Something Awful: Internet makes you stupid. Retrieved January 18, 2009 from www.somethingawful.com.

After some serious disturbances such as money theft and crashing the grid one too many times, SA Goons were permanently banned as a group from Second Life in mid-2004. On April 27, 2004, some Goons formed a new group called W-Hat to get away from the bad reputation of the SA Goons and located in the Baku SIM (in 2007 they moved to their own island named after the group, W-Hat). On February 18, 2006, a group of W-Hat officers, led by Verbena Pennyfeather, who was banned from W-Hat due to his association with a very dangerous griefer, Plastic 5

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Moot, started a related forum, 4chan,6 as a Western clone of the Japanese Futaba Channel (2channel or 2ch) image board. The sub-forums of the 4chan, specifically the /b/ thread forums (whose members are referred to as /b/tards), where random things are posted (and, subsequently, /i/ thread forums which are considered to be the invasion group of 4chan that raided various Internet sites), gave birth to Chan groups in SL like the Patriatic Nigras (PN).

These griefer groups, I contend, create specific, yet temporary, magic circles that exhibit their particular way of engaging in grief play and thus propagate similar, yet distinct, cultures and activities. In doing so, these groups present manifestations of the modern cultural formation that Raymond Williams (1981) discusses in The Sociology of Culture. The two types of groups that Williams defines are, “those based on formal membership, with varying modes of internal authority or decision, and of constitution and election; those not based on formal membership, but organized around some collective public manifestation, such as an exhibition, a group press or periodical, or an explicit manifesto” (p. 68). Griefing groups that have emerged in SL, thus, follow the pattern of those of cultural formations in that they are based on formal membership either by requiring the membership of a parent web site or passing various tests that demonstrates the hopeful’s mastery of the literacy of the respective message boards, thereby proving the fluency of the literacy of a particular group. These groups not only embody various modes of internal authority and constitution specific to individual groups, but also are organized around a collective public manifesto published on their official web sites. Oftentimes, their daily activities are documented on these sites regularly in the form of pictures or stories.

Although there are more overlaps between Goons (affiliated with the SA forums) and /b/tards (affiliated with the /b/ threads in 4chan) than each group would care to acknowledge, there is an implicit animosity between the two. Describing themselves as “elitist pricks,” Goons believe (for better or worse) that their griefing style is more sophisticated than that of the Chan groups. Dibbell observes this tension in his article and explains that “Patriotic Nigras, /b/tards all, look on the somewhat better-behaved Goon community – in particular the W-Hats, a Second Life group open only to registered Something Awful members – as uptight sellouts. The W-Hats disavow any affiliation with the ‘immature’ and ‘uncreative’ Nigras other than ruefully acknowledge them as ‘sort of our retarded children’” (p. 93). The ultimate difference, however, goes beyond the style of humor, but rather lies in the difference in each group’s way of subverting SL culture and of what is deemed to be appropriate use of its platform. Nowadays, while Goons mostly attack the content of the world with their offensive builds and shocking

Duck, formed their own group, Voted 5 (V5), and settled in a new region named Satyr. After a series of grid crashes, sixty members of V5 were permanently banned on September 19, 2006, and their SIM was reclaimed.

6 4chan forums, the sister site of SA, play an equally important role in Goon culture and demonstrate similar subversive tendencies towards the society and the values it upholds. The idea behind these forums is that someone opens a thread appropriate to the topic of a particular section, generally by asking a question, and everyone else leaves a comment related to that particular thread. These posts are mostly made up of images collected from the Internet and digitally edited to present a commentary of some sort. What is really fascinating is that new images and posts are being added by the second and each new post comments on the previous ones, hyperlinking to the particular post it is commenting on, a fact not obvious for an outsider to these forums like me. 4chan prunes these threads regularly, an understandable precaution, given the high traffic of these forums, thereby making 4chan entirely new every couple of weeks. The goal is to find what sticks, meaning what strikes a chord with enough people to become a set piece and keep showing up in the threads. Because new posts are added by the second and are constantly pruned, these threads form texts which are in a constant state of flux. More importantly, Goons have the fluency required to read these texts. These forums are located at http://www.4chan.org/. 4chan: not dead yet!

Retrieved November, 2008 from http://www.4chan.org/.

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images, PN focuses on crippling the medium itself by launching regular raids in-world to cause lag or to crash sims. Despite the differences among these groups, however, all of them pursue a common goal of attacking the idea of the “Internet is serious business.”

As cultural formations, however, these griefer groups adopt the ways in which subcultures present their objections and contradictions to hegemony, which, as Dick Hebdige (1979/1991) argues, is in a spectacular fashion. Hebdige argues that “the challenge to hegemony which subcultures represent is not issued directly by them. Rather it is expressed obliquely, in style. The objections are lodged, the contradictions are displayed . . . at a profoundly superficial level of appearances: that is, at the level of signs” (p. 17). Accordingly, he contends that the struggle between different discourses, different definitions and meanings within ideology, is always a struggle within signification, a struggle which extends to even the most mundane areas of everyday life. He explains that style in subculture is, then: [P]regnant with significance. Its transformations go ‘against nature’, interrupting the process of ‘normalization’. As such, they are gestures, movements towards a speech which offends the ‘silent majority’, which challenges the principles of unity and cohesion, which contradicts the myth of consensus. Our task becomes…to discern the hidden messages inscribed in code on the glossy surface of style, to trace them out as ‘maps of meaning’ which obscurely re-present the very contradictions they are designed to resolve or conceal (p. 18).

When discussing the use of socially offensive symbolism in punk culture, Hebdige explains that “[t]he signifier (swastika) had been willfully detached from the concept (Nazism) it conventionally signified, and although it had been re-positioned . . . within an alternative subcultural context, its primary value and appeal derived precisely from its lack of meaning: from its potential for deceit” (p. 117). According to him, the appropriation of this type of symbolism leads subcultures to represent noise, not sound (p. 85). But, the signifying power of the spectacular subculture is not just a metaphor for the potential anarchy out somewhere, but is rather an actual mechanism of semantic disorder, or what Hebdige refers to as “a kind of temporary blockage in the system of representation” (p. 90).

In this context, griefers in Second Life form groups that engage in potentially subversive practices that can be recognized as characterizing the activities of spectacular subcultures. They express their objections to the serious treatment of SL through their game style, which impinges on causing turmoil exclusively for the lulz. Underneath the rhetoric of game play based on targeting those who take the Internet seriously, however, there exists a cultural signification with serious effects. They not only jam the world’s signification system and subvert the bourgeois taste by spamming the environment with offensive objects, but also attack capitalistic ideology by crashing sims and significant media events, and regularly launching raids in-world which result in causing in-world businesses to lose money, thereby hurting the virtual economy at large.

W-Hat’s cheeky activities and appropriation of the virtual world by creating offensive builds with objectionable symbolism (complete with swastikas, AIDS/rape signs, and cyberterrorism flags, all of which are removed from their conventional signifiers), as well as the constant in-world raids that PNs launch periodically in Second Life, are performative activities that create noise targeted to block the system of representation. Feem Lomax, a V5 member who 11

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was banned during the mass-ban of the entire group, admitting that almost all of the people whom he encounters in SL are confused, infuriated, or even disgusted by him within minutes, admits that his most unforgivable crime was to be an “SA forum Goon, a W-Hatter; and a Voter 5.” Denying that he ever engaged in hardcore griefing, he explains his activities as such:

I built offensive items, such as a sewage treatment plant on the shoreline of a new continent, and enormous sky-scraping towers of shiny black stone. I built an art deco toilet which defiled every aspect of feng shui; I built an avatar with a vagina for a face, sores all over her back, a penis for a nose and an American Flag as decoupage (Uchniat, 2006) .

No doubt, the production that takes place amongst the griefer groups, with its crass humor and vulgar aesthetics that celebrate lower-body functions and its offensive rhetoric that borders on racism at its worst, denotes a non-elite, social context which griefers claim as their own when undermining the sense of taste deemed to be appropriate within Second Life culture.

The unconventional activities that griefers perform in the off-the-cuff magic circles that they create provide them with transitory spaces in which they can generate noise that presents a blockage in the system of representation of the mainstream culture in a spectacular fashion.

Accordingly, offending the silent majority becomes a goal in and of itself for griefers, particularly for the Goons. Thus, after having been accused of being cyberterrorists and communists by Prokovy Neva, a famous real-estate owner and a controversial blogger, the group incorporated cyberterrorist flags in their sims and created a group uniform with a hammer and sickle belt buckle and various other red objects with the same communist symbol. In addition to these images, the group is famous for making use of sexually offensive signs and imagery (AIDS and rape signs) when decorating their sims and making a series of machinimas with off-color content and posting them on Second Life Safari, a subdivision of SA. In one of these machinimas, “Alien Invasion,” a group of aliens perform their BDSM fantasies on an abducted woman; in another, “Shiplog of the U.S.S. Prokofy Neva” (attributed to the aforementioned blogger), Star Trek characters engage in sexual activities in their ship, The Enterprise, an activity that takes place frequently in the role-playing sims of Second Life (Peterson, “Shiplog,” 2006).

Furries, or avatars who like to assume the shape of animals and who are believed to be homosexuals, are one of the most popular targets for griefers. The “Tacowood” build, for example, which was built as a parody of the Furry sim, Luskwood, depicted a Furry massacre with all its blood and gore. As such, the build embodied the type of literacy that exhibited the struggle between the two sub-groups: Griefer groups and the Furry communities. The literacy necessary to understand how and why violent symbolism was adopted when depicting the Furries, once again, dates back to the SA forums. SA used to pick an “Awful Link of the Day” that featured a poorly designed web site mostly about a bizarre fetish of some sort. Lum Kuhr (one of the senior Goons) explains that Furry sites were frequently selected because theirs would generally adopt unusual fetishes. When these sites were reviewed negatively, the Furry community was enraged and sent massive e-mails, complaining about the reviews and even threatening the forums with lawsuits. Although the existence of the Furry communities dates back to the 1960s, Lum maintains that most Goons discovered the Furries though the SA site.

Lum further explains that Goons are antagonistic mainly towards the Yiffy (i.e., horny) ones who 12

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Spectacular Interventions in Second Life 13

engage in alternative sexual lifestyles like the vore (virtually eating your partner) or the macro/micro sex (which refers to sex between really large and really small characters).7 Given the long history between the Goons, /b/tards, and Furries, the animosity being displayed towards Furries in environments created by the griefer groups comes as no surprise.

The name of the mock-build, “Tacowood,” is a combination of Taco (a cartoon-like, Furryfriendly island), and Luskwood (home for Furries). But the build is not a tribute to the Furry community. On the contrary, the build features violence at its extreme: police cages covered in feces, Furries on crucifixes, blood-covered Furries stabbed in their beds, Furries being used for target practice, and various other abominable features. Although V5 probably would claim that they created this build for no other reason than to make fun of the Furries, the fact remains that the violent imagery used in depicting the Furry community serves to create noise, or rather semantic disorder, in Second Life. The attempt at pushing the boundaries of what is acceptable is quite apparent in their offensive builds, such as this one, that are full of phallic imagery, foul language, and provocative ideas.

Although Goons claim that they do not engage in any hardcore griefing in Second Life (such as those that may threaten the stability of the platform), through the use of shocking builds, offensive language, and pranks they create transient magic circles that generate noise and disorder, which then expands to the entire world. Thus, their activities create temporary blockages in the world’s signification system, cause disruption in the daily life of Second Life, and ultimately attack its social stability. Put simply, Goons attack the content of the world and ruin other people’s experience of Second Life. Precisely because these attacks on content undermine Linden Lab’s promise of providing a second life enjoyable to everyone, they are breaking the system, albeit on a symbolic level. Similar to cultural formations that adopt the tactics of spectacular subcultures that borrow objects from the most sordid of contexts and value the perverse and abnormal (as Hebdige discusses in Subculture), Goons use illicit iconography of sexual fetishism in their machinimas (such as the paraphernalia of bondage and pornography), and adopt socially offensive discourse to elicit a certain spectacular effect. They adopt tropes that attempt to undermine significant cultural icons in order to construct an identity counter to what they perceive to be the assumed norm. They remove this offensive symbolism from their real-life cultural context and use them to embrace the identity of the “cyberterrorist,” a label all-toowillingly bestowed upon them by over-zealous residents.

7

Getting tired of the complaints from the Furries who belonged to the SA site, one of the moderators decided to identify the Furries on the site by adding Yiffy Stars (a six pointed yellow star) underneath their forum avatars. A sub-forum called the “Furry Concentration Camp” (FCC) was created, and those with Yiffy Stars were designated to be FCC-only, meaning they were only allowed to post on that sub-forum. Shortly thereafter, this group was permanently banned from the SA forums. Lum Kuhr admits that she has “no idea if that was planned from the beginning, or if the parallels to the plight of the [J]ews killed by the [N]azis was [sic] intentional. But they were noticed.”

This incident somewhat clarifies why Furries see themselves as a race akin to African-Americans or Hispanics, as noted by Frizzlefry101 in his interview. In addition, the YouTube Furry war that a group called Fried Chicken Trolling Crew (FCTC) launched, which (according to Frizzlefry101) instigated Furry/Hy00man (human, non-Furry) flamewars and spamming, clearly indicates the deep roots of this animosity. According to Zimmer, FCTC singlehandedly destroyed the furfags on YouTube. Frizzlefry101 says that this trolling group, which was created a few months after PN was established, is soon to join his group.

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Spectacular Interventions in Second Life 14

Bringing Down the House: Raiding Second Life

Patriatic Nigras (PNs), who claim to be “ruining your Second Life since 2006” (their official slogan), take a more disruptive approach to jamming the signification system of Second Life than their Goon counterparts. Rather than creating offensive builds of poor taste and in addition to executing outrageous pranks, they actively raid in-world where they clutter the environment with superfluous objects, spam chat channels with obscenities, and attempt to cripple the medium itself. In this sense, the activities the Nigras engage in within the magic circles they form not only attack the social and symbolic stability of the world, but also target its overall existence.

The presence of PNs in Second Life (a group which migrated from Habbo Hotel, a Finland-based virtual world for teens where they adopted their dark-skinned avatar with an AfroArmani suit) emerged out of an attempt at raiding a virtual Furry club known as “Gay Yiffy Club” frequented by the Furries. Frizzlefry101, the current leader of the group, says that in the following months the group grew larger and targeted many other fetish groups like Goreans, Ageplayers, and others. While Frizzlefry101 notes that the group also targets high profile people and places, such as John Edwards Headquarters and CNN’s iReport areas, he admits that they gravitate towards raiding Furries and other fetish groups because “many of them see themselves as a race similar to blacks or hispanics” and tend to take Second Life more seriously than others, thus making the Furry reaction to the stunts all the more hilarious. Frizzlefry101 bluntly confesses that, ultimately, the Nigras “get enjoyment out of . . . kicking freaks.”

Zimmer, a known PN member, explains that some of the Nigras used to belong to the Goon groups when Goons actively raided in Second Life. But he notes that since W-Hat now has an official sim, their members “[see] themselves as superior because they stand around in Second Life paying [money] for it. Whereas we [PNs] troll8 in SL.” He also claims that W-Hats consider themselves better than the PNs because they “play the game seriously and take SL as the equivalent of real life,” but this is in contradiction to the W-Hat’s claim that they are targeting those who take the “Internet as serious business.” This contradiction is a fundamental criticism of the Goon group. Similarly, Frizzlefry101 explains that W-Hat does not grief in the damaging way that PN does any more, but simply does offensive things, makes offensive builds, and puts on a good show. He maintains that the PN emerged as a group keen on raiding in Second Life primarily after the shift in the nature of the activities of W-Hat. Ultimately, they consider the WHat Goons as regular SL users. Considering themselves as an invasion group of Second Life, PNs pride themselves in carrying on the work of the pioneering griefers such as Plastic Duck and aim to inspire a new generation of griefers dedicated to fighting AIDS, racism, and furfags (a derogatory term they use for Furries).

Raiding is particularly conducive to unstable, spontaneous magic circles that do not require a certain number of participants and do not need a well-defined space in order to sprint 8

Trolling is engaging in activities such as posting controversial, inflammatory, irrelevant or off-topic messages in an online community (such as an online discussion forum or a chat room) with the intention of provoking other users into an emotional response or to generally disrupt normal on-topic discussion.

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Spectacular Interventions in Second Life 15

into existence. In this sense, this approach is truer to the spirit of griefing than the activities of W-Hat and V5 who, as Zimmer notes, are confined to the land they legally own. Within that instability, however, the PNs are able to mobilize these amorphous magic circles to reaffirm themselves as valid cultural formations. Frizzlefry101 explains that, in the early days, raids used to be planned at least a week in advance, but gradually, organizing the raids shifted to the IRC channels and became more spontaneous. PNs raid in larger groups only when there is a high profile event, otherwise, they raid in pairs or alone, because, as Frizzlefry101 maintains, it only takes one person to clutter a SIM or grid. According to Frizzlefry101, although group raids are proposed by the leader first (whose job is to keep the members in line), group members do not need the leader’s permission to raid. But he adds that if the leader decides on a raid, then everyone is obligated to participate in the event. Raids, on the most basic level, involve simple trolling which can be anything from going into an area to be annoying, starting arguments between other people, or using scripts to frame others for griefing to get them banned. In addition to trolling, PNs are notorious for their sim-wide and grid-wide raiding that, ultimately, causes disruption on a larger scale and clutters the world with loud noise, profanities, and annoying prims (which is a name given to the building blocks of virtual objects in Second Life).

Although most griefers do not have hacking skills, the Nigras (along with other griefers) freely appropriate the hacks created by legitimate Second Life developers to facilitate their griefing activities. In doing so, they interfere with the hacker culture of Second Life as well.

While griefers share with the hacker community the value of decentralization and mistrust of authority, their acts of appropriating freely-available code for malicious purposes brings to light some of the negative aspects of the values much cherished by hackers themselves and much dreaded by the rest of the community. Believing that all information should be free and shared by anyone who is able to appreciate it, developers post their hacks online, available for anyone’s use (Levy, 1984 and 2001, p. 39-49). This principle is quickly turned on its head when griefers (who mostly lack any coding skills and thus have earned the derogatory term “script kiddies”) appropriate these hacks for griefing purposes and benefit from the thirst of knowledge much valued by the hacker community. CopyBot,9 for example, which was initially created by the libsecondlife team (a developer group supported by Linden Lab) as an object awareness code, which allowed bots to replicate surrounding objects to ensure their accurate perception by these bots, provides a great example of using a legitimate tool to cause disruption. The tool, which seemingly copies objects around it, instigated mass hysteria among content creators after it was leaked and sold on the open market. On the brink of protests, law suits, and bans, the libsecondlife team (whose members were labeled as “griefers” by the community as a result) deleted some essential parts of the code, allowing it to only copy objects, but not complete avatars. This tool was later used by the PN to migrate their inventory (where one’s virtual assets are kept) from one account to the other before the offending accounts were permanently banned

by Linden Lab. Currently, PN is limited to using CopyBot to copy any object across the grid that they feel would be useful to them for griefing purposes or to copy objects in front of their owners 9 In November 2006, a tool developed by libsecondlife called CopyBot caused much mayhem in-world. CopyBot was created to test the object awareness code of the Bots that libsecondlife developers created in Second Life; in other words, it tested whether or not they saw external objects properly. The surest way to do this was to have the Bot (later named as CopyBot) copy and display the objects and avatars around it. CopyBot performed this task without asking for any permission because it was never meant to be released publicly, but rather, was created as a debugging tool for developers. Then somehow the code was leaked and sold on the open market in SLExchange, one of the online vendors of Second Life. The public release of this tool caused the content developers to go on strike and some prophesied this to be the end of Second Life.

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Spectacular Interventions in Second Life 16

who undoubtedly get upset seeing their property being stolen (or appearing to be stolen) within seconds. Explaining that they mostly use it for trolling purposes, N3X15, one of the few PNs who is capable of hacking, explains that they would walk into a store which sells things for L$100, copy it with CopyBot, attach it to their penis, and “then walk up to the store owner and headfuck [the store owner].” The few hackers in the group are actively working on restoring the deleted portions of the code to give the tool its full functionality and to integrate it into the PN sim, ShoopedLife, which is technically outside of the realm of Linden Lab since it is hosted on an unrelated server.

Working on CopyBot is an important task for the PN because it is one step towards their bigger plan, or, perhaps, the final step: threatening the economic stability of Second Life.

Frizzlefry101 surmises that “PN could only consider its goal complete once [S]econd [L]ife is killed or has been purged of [F]urries.” While noting that the latter is impossible, he believes that the former is very possible if the virtual economy is destabilized and rendered dysfunctional as a result. While CopyBot, when it was first leaked, presented a case of unintentional griefing that elicited mass hysteria in-world, a remodeled, retooled version, FrizzleFry101 believes, could bring them closer to what he identifies as their ultimate goal. As a matter of fact, Frizzlefry101 does not believe that they have to wait to fully develop CopyBot to play with SL’s economy.

PNs can possibly hack into other users’ Second Life accounts, perhaps those of shop owners, and embed trap scripts into the objects that are being sold and give these objects full copy permission, a type of permission that would allow whoever buys these objects to freely distribute them to whomever they want. The trapped objects would begin spamming once something triggers the malicious script, resulting in a mass ban, thereby instigating paranoia and fear among residents regarding their purchases. Frizzlefry101 says that the PNs used this trick on a smaller scale when they distributed trapped objects for free, and even built automatic dispensers for them, resulting in the new owners being banned by Linden Lab. Yet he claims that for the economy to take a serious hit, they will have to widen these initiatives to be grid-wide. Since most PNs are using unverified (anonymous) accounts without any credit card information that can link them back to these disposable accounts, they could easily evade any legal repercussions in the real world that might result from their activities in Second Life.

Whether or not the PN would be able to kill Second Life by playing with its economy with CopyBot or any other malicious tool is anyone’s guess. Their intention is clear, but also rather ambiguous at best. When asked why they were not already using trapped objects to elicit mass hysteria and take down the world, Frizzlefry101 bluntly admits that if they did it, then their fun would end. This honest confession brings to light the interesting ways in which cultural formations and even subcultures interact with the culture with which they are trying to interfere.

Damaging Second Life irreparably (if they could) would mean the impossibility of generating any magic circles that would allow them to continue their grief play and thus, consequently, stop them from mobilizing any cultural formations that would emerge as a result. Moreover, N3X15, who is actively working on the tool, claims that the tool is currently fairly broken and it is impossible to make it copy scripts (since only the attributes of the objects that are publicly seen can be copied and not the scripts that are included in the objects). He also admits that the tool has not been adopted widely enough to pose any kind of substantial damage to the economy.

Michel de Certeau’s theory of the production and consumption of everyday life, in this respect, provides a working paradigm that sheds light on the activities of the griefers who are essentially poaching the environment in various ways through grief play within the magic circles 16

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Spectacular Interventions in Second Life 17

they generate. They adopt tactical approaches to using Second Life’s platform in ways not initially foreseen by Linden Lab. De Certeau defines tactics, which he sees as being essential to the functioning of everyday life, as calculated actions exercised by those in a position of weakness. Accordingly, tactics rely on trickery, the clever utilization of time and the opportunities it presents (De Certeau, 1984 and1988, p. 38-39). Many everyday practices, including talking, reading, and moving, are tactical in character and involve poaching of some kind. Griefing is a de facto tactical activity.

Because of their position of weakness, griefers adopt subversion as a form of play to systematically test the boundaries of the system in which they participate. By exercising tactical forms of power, which rely on poaching the environment or the medium, they are able to respond to the power being exerted over them by Linden Lab. The inherent appeal for grief play is, ultimately, breaking the system by going up against it. While Goons block the system of representation and create noise by constructing offensive builds with shocking imagery and engaging in cheeky activities (and thus, offending the mainstream taste), groups like PN raid Second Life, which they claim they do exclusively for the lulz. Beneath the lulz, however, lies a more serious goal. More than anything, their raids ultimately aim to break Second Life by rendering the medium itself temporarily dysfunctional.

Poaching the environment of Second Life, in this sense, is hardly limited to funny pranks, but rather, it is taken to its extreme by poaching the medium itself by staging various attacks through which the functionality of the world is direly affected. These attacks generally cause lagging or even crashing of the sim, which ultimately deforms the medium in such a way that, in some cases, the world may be rendered entirely unusable. Lagging the SIM is one way of deforming the functionality of the medium because it causes the affected SIM to run at a slower capacity that usual. Every object (including avatars) uses up a certain amount of server space, that is, the resources of the server such as memory. A good amount of lag is bound to happen in locations that are highly populated either with objects or avatars. Scripted objects (or objects that are animated) increase the lag because they require more memory to execute the actions that are attached to them. Because laggy spaces cause much frustration among residents who are not able to work at a regular speed, griefers rezz, or materialize, multiple instances of scripted objects, such as flames or any images that move, for the sake of causing lag in sandboxes where residents build.

Accordingly, PNs mostly engage in sim-scale and grid-scale raiding which aims to deform the medium itself. Sim-scale raiding involves filling it with loud and annoying prims, spamming everyone’s screens with obscenities or some shocking image, or disrupting high profile events with flying objects (as Goons, too, are notorious for doing, as evidenced by the attack they launched on Anshe Chung’s CNET interview), and crashing sims for some spectacular effect which is a more definitive way to deform SL. Crashing the SIM does not require any programming skills and can sometimes happen inadvertently due to the instability of the platform. Objects shaped in a certain way, when rezzed in-world, will inevitably crash the sim. PNs, however, as do other griefers, take advantage of these weaknesses for griefing purposes. For example, on August 12, 2007, PNs crashed seventeen sims, including the Rosedale SIM (which belongs to the previous CEO of Linden Lab), in a swastika pattern, thereby provoking the outrage of a Jewish mafia boss in Second Life, Cinda Valentino, who vowed that her group would be proactive in the matter since Linden Lab is unable to stop it from happening (Urizenus, 2007).

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Spectacular Interventions in Second Life 18

An even more effective way to render Second Life unusable is through initiating grey goo attacks by releasing self-replicating objects in the world that frequently take the form of flying penises. While crashing sims is only a localized way of taking down certain regions of Second Life, grey goo, like a virus, spreads across sims and is hard to contain. Gray goo originally referred to a hypothetical end-of-the-world scenario involving molecular nanotechnology in which out-of-control, self-replicating robots consume all living matter on Earth in the process of constructing more of themselves. Gray goo in Second Life works in a similar fashion. As the number of self-replicating objects in a particular region increase, the amount of server space that these objects require increases as well, thus overloading the servers and slowing down the operations of the world. Once the servers are unable to handle the load, the grid crashes and Second Life becomes unusable pending the removal of these malicious objects. On Christmas day of 2006, for example, one such attack was launched in Second Life with objects that appeared to be hollow green penises with Santa hats, owned by an avatar named llMakeExplosion Toll, which, not surprisingly, was a disposable account created specifically for this purpose. While this attack was not openly claimed by the by any group, PN is known to engage in launching grey goo attacks to take the grid down.

This type of environmental poaching breaks the system in a much more fundamental way than merely attacking the content of the world. Although griefers do interfere with the social and symbolic stability of Second Life, in that they almost always use objectionable symbolism as a way to create a spectacular effect from their grief play, these attempts result in interfering with the stability of the platform and ultimately the economic stability of Second Life. They crash sims in a swastika pattern, they initiate grey goo attacks with green penises in Santa hats, they crash important media events as weirdly dressed up avatars, which eventually leads to an attack with virtual penises that crash the sim. All of these attacks break the platform in a spectacular fashion laden with symbolic imagery that offends common taste. More important, as long as the platform remains unusable, money is lost, reputations are damaged, and brands are defaced.

Grief play in the context of social worlds is based on user-generated content and transforms into a disruptive act that is recognized as griefing. Such acts interfere with the daily life of SL and have serious social, cultural, and economic repercussions that go beyond mere play or ruining other playersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; game play. My research is an initial attempt to analyze some contexts in which grief play turns into griefing and investigate the interconnections between the two concepts. As stated earlier, the play style of griefers not only jam the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s signification system and subverts the mainstream taste by cluttering the environment with objects that have shocking symbolism and spamming a region with profanities, but also break the platform by regularly launching raids and crashing sims, particularly during significant media events, resulting in businesses and individuals losing money. The griefing activities, ultimately, do not just playfully attack some people who take the Internet seriously, but also hurt the virtual economy at large. In this sense, grief play transforms into an initiative against capitalistic ideology as represented in virtual environments.

The possible destabilizing effects of a play style on the virtual economy reveals other significant connections between games and culture as alluded to by Salen and Zimmerman in Rules of Play. Salen and Zimmerman (2004) argue that games have the potential to move beyond play to map relationships between magic circles and the culture at large and, as such, they have the power to transform cultural values. Grief play, in this context, becomes a play style with the potential to affect culture. The Copybot incident (its uses and abuses) has already opened up 18

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Spectacular Interventions in Second Life 19

discussions on virtual property ownership, copyright issues, and Linden Labâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s authority over that ownership. Griefers, within a social context, have lain bare our established set of norms and led us to re-evaluate our values and bring up important discussions regarding both the virtual world and the real one that we might otherwise not have had.

To date, the research that has been done on griefing mostly focused on the models that emerged within game theory and analyzed the cultural, economic, and social aspects of grief play in games and game worlds, while not many have looked at the effects of griefing beyond grief play in social worlds (Castronova, 2005; Consalvo, 2007). This may imply that the literature is manifesting an underlying assumption that grief play in game worlds has similar consequences to grief play social contexts. While the mechanics of these types of disruptive activities may be similar, their consequences in social worlds appear to be more far-reaching than in worlds that have a well-defined gaming structure. This paper suggests that future research on griefing in social worlds should examine any assumptions taken from game theory and analyze the consequences of griefing activities as a transformative act.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

Analyzing Social Identity (Re)Production: Identity Liminal Events in MMORPGs

By Javier A. Salazar, Tohoku Gakuin Unversity, Japan

Abstract Within Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Games (MMORPG) studies, there are many papers dedicated to player typologies. This is especially true when it comes to themes that directly or indirectly touch the social identity of opposing groups of players: “roleplayers” vs. “PvPers”, “helpers vs. griefers”, “power gamers” vs. “casual gamers”, etc. Every time researchers label a group of players as, for example, "roleplayers" they are indeed assuming the existence of a social identity of this group. However, in MMORPG literature there are very few pages dedicated to theorizing about social identity. In this paper, I provide practical examples of how social identity in MMORPGS can be analyzed through the application of Salazar's (2006) social identity (re)production theoretical model. The basic unit of analysis is what in this paper will be called an Identity Liminal Event (ILE), or specific MMORPG events on which the constitutive elements of social identity can be observed. The examples to be studied in this paper are ILEs taken from the World of Warcraft and Star Wars Galaxies MMORPGs. To conclude, the paper offers several suggestions for implementing this theoretical model for further studying MMORPG events.

Keywords: social identity; role play; MMORPG; WoW; SWG.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Analyzing Social Identity (Re)Production 4

Analyzing Social Identity (Re)Production: Identity Liminal Events in MMORPGs

By Javier A. Salazar, Tohoku Gakuin Unversity, Japan

Up until now, Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Games (MMORPGs) research has benefitted from a wide array of disciplines and research traditions, which has generated an enormous amount of themes and objects of study.

Under this context, perhaps one of the most recurrent themes has been player typologies.

Ever since Bartle’s (1996, 2003) seminal “achievers”, “socializer”, “explorer” and “killer” taxonomy, many times criticized or commented upon (Yee, 2002 and Karlsen, 2004), game researchers have been prone to grouping players according to their traits or playing styles and label them into a category. Alternative typologies have emerged, such as Edwards’ (2001, 2004) “gamist”, “narrativist” and “simulationist” (GNS model) perspective and Kim’s (1997) Threefold model. Entire research projects have been dedicated to determining a taxonomy of motivations for playing MMORPGs, such as Yee’s (2008) Daedalus project. The underlying dialectic relation between opposing types of player groups, such as “power gamers” vs. “ casual gamers” (Taylor, 2003) and “RP’ers” vs. “PvP’ers” (Copier, 2007) has been thoroughly examined in MMORPG studies.

Even though each of these approaches is fairly differentiated, they do share one thing in common: they identify different types of groups of players, and by doing so they assume the existence of an overarching construct – social identity. Social identity could be understood, in part, as the set of traits and characteristics that differentiate one group from another (Salazar, 2006). Therefore, when researchers label a group of players as “power gamers” or “roleplayers”, they are drawing upon this group’s social identity. Unless it is assumed that, those fitting under the “powergamer” label share similar characteristics that would give a relative consistence to the identity of “the powergamers” as a group, then this player type cannot be even considered as such. Consequently, social identity is a necessary meta-construct that allows a researcher to give forth the notion of a particular player typology.

Nevertheless, in spite of the direct relationship that the social identity construct has with player typology themes, there is an underwhelming amount of papers concerned with how can the social identity of groups in MMORPGS be theoretically approached. Granted, there have been countless pages dedicated to theorizing the virtual identity of individuals that play online games and connect in the internet (e.g. Rheingold, 1993; Turkle,1995; Wilbur,1997; Foster 1997, Salazar, 2004, 2005), but it seems that there are very few that deal with the social “virtual identity” of online groups.

Recognizing this discrepancy, on a previous research (Salazar, 2006) I proposed a theoretical model that explains the logic behind the process by which social identity can be initially produced and further reproduced by a group within an MMORPG. In that study, I focused on describing how the theoretical model was derived from ethnographic experiences in the Star Wars Galaxies (SWG) MMORPG. On the other hand, in this paper I intend to apply this

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model to the study of specific events taken from two different MMORPG experiences1, on which the basic constitutive elements of social identity can be extracted and isolated. Hence, the objective of this paper is to provide a practical example of how social identity can be diachronically analyzed in MMORPGs. In order to fulfill this objective it is necessary to recapitulate, at least in very basic terms, the categories and assumptions of the abovementioned model.

Salazar’s (2006) Social Identity (Re)Production Model

One of the basic assumptions of this model is that social identity is far from being a static phenomenon. The content of a group’s social identity, such as its differentiating traits and characteristics, can change throughout the group’s lifespan. Therefore it is much more useful to base a theoretical model on the structural elements on which the contents of social identity rest upon.

Thus, the model is guided by “a dynamic conception of social identity which assumes that it is a cultural construction produced during the initial stages of group formation and then, on the successive lifespan of the group, it never ceases to be reproduced” (Salazar, 2006, p. 36).

During this (re)production process, social identity is expressed in the group’s reality as an unstable set of social representations, ideas and collective constructions that convey meaning for its members and that revolve around symbolic codes; these codes are the basic structural element of social identity. A “symbolic code” is both “a structured and structuring frame of meaning and symbolic representations through which the members assign significance to the group’s social reality” (Garcia, 1996, p. 5). Some of the identified symbolic codes include: “ Narrative codes: which revolve around the usage of story telling based contextual elements, provided by the historical or mythical milieu inside which the group inhabits.

Spatial codes: involving inclusion/exclusion processes based on the occupation, ascription, appropriation or inhabitance of a shared space or territory.

Inclusion/ Exclusion codes: which revolve around the co-construction of adscription categories by the members of a group. These categories define who is “in” a group and who is “out”.

Identity boundaries: which are the resulting symbolic and pervasive dividing lines of the inclusion/exclusion codes, and that serve as basic differentiating cues for perceiving attribute differences between the ingroup and its outgroups.” (Salazar, 2006, pp. 75-76)

As a result of the interaction of these codes, in any given event where a group interacts with other groups in its virtual environment the following group categories can be identified.

The ingroup; which is the group whose social identity is being analyzed. It could be either the group of which the researcher is a member, or the group whose point of view he is trying to elucidate, or the group of players he wants to study. The individuals of the ingroup identify themselves as members of a same group through inclusion codes. Inside an ingroup

1

In fact, in Salazar (2006), I suggested that the next logical step was to apply the model for studying the realities of other MMORPGs. This paper is a direct reply to this suggestion and therefore it constitutes a continuation of my previous work.

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there can also be innergroups, which are subgroups within the group formed by further including ingroup members within meaningful categories.

Furthermore, by including members within an ingroup, players automatically apply exclusion codes to those individuals they perceive as different than themselves, these are the outgroups. In MMORPGs, the ingroup usually exists within a complex set of alliances and animosities towards its outgroups, whilst imposing pervasive identity boundaries as a means for differentiating the “us” from the “other”.

There are three types of outgroups: The close others, which are groups that are perceived as similar to the ingroup, usually as allies or friends.

The far others, which are groups that are perceived as different from the ingroup, usually as enemies or antagonistic opposites.

The radical other, which is usually occupied by the developers of the game. Player identities in MMORPGs are constructed upon the features that developers put into the game and conversely, they are as well key factors on the co-construction of the game’s social landscape.

Hence, since developers participate in the game in a radically different level than players do, they are labeled as “radical others”.

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Figure 1 graphically illustrates the relationship between the abovementioned elements.

Outgroups “Far Others”

Ingroup:“Us” Innergroups

Outgroup “Radical Other”

Outgroups “ Close Others ”

Ascription Space Narrative Space

LEGEND Narrative Codes

Spatial Codes

Exclusion Codes

Inclusion Codes

Identity Boundaries

Figure 1. Social Identity (Re)production Model Source: Salazar, 2006, p. 78

The elements portrayed in Figure 1 could be used for the diachronic analysis of events in MMORPGs on which social identity (re)production processes can be evidenced. This means that it allows the researcher to pick an event and make a “snapshot” of a particular moment of a

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group’s lifespan, with which a “cross-section” that shows the constitutive elements of social identity can be examined2.

Now that the theoretical model has been explained, we can move forward into the description of the kind of content that can be used to fill its analytical categories: the players’ discourse (speech acts) and the Identity Liminal Events (speech events) that contextualize them.

Discourse and Identity: A Contingent Relationship

It is hard to imagine how the analysis of an individual’s or a group’s identity could be studied without taking into consideration the person’s discourse. What we are is in so many ways dependent of what we say, what we say we do, what we do while we are saying it and what we think that we are doing and saying while we are saying it that it is practically impossible to separate discourse and identity. Indeed, across all social sciences, most of the theoretical approaches that are available for studying the identity construct (both on the individual “personal identity” level or on the group “social identity” level) do use discourse, in one way or another, as the main source of information ( Benwell & Stokoe, 2006).

This is especially true in regards to MMORPG studies. Since in online environments the most easily perceivable cues of a player’s identity are expressed through real time text input, emoticons, avatar emotes, and speech utterances audible in real time through third party software, it is common practice among qualitative researchers to cite, for instance, in-game chat transcripts to prove or explain a point. As an example of this, I will bring forth an excerpt taken from Copier’s (2007) ethnography on the World of Warcraft (WoW) MMORPG, where the author describes an attack that happened during a role playing event in which a caravan that was carrying important archives and books got assaulted by bandits: […] Rezoc yells: WATCH YOUR BACKS […] Eiswein yells: Stop that maniac! Dont let him get to the books! […] Amarae yells: AMBUSH!.. […] Borislew yells: Form up! […] Nightgarde yells: RESS if you can!... […] Eiswein yells: Healers, get these people back on their feet! Mercenaries, spread out! Scout the area for more! […] [Raid] Elaniya: (( That, was, cool. : D ) …

As the … chatlog shows …, the fight was a combination between role-play [italics added] (“Stop that maniac! Dont let him get to the books!”), fighting according to the game mechanics (when someone dies, Nightgarde orders players to “ress” –ressurrect- which is the fastest way for a player character to get to life again) and OOC remarks (“ That, was, cool. : D” ) ( Copier, 2007, p. 111).

In this example, it is clear how discursive elements can be used to assert a player’s identity. In her paper, the author repeatedly identifies as “role-players” as those that tend to emit “in character” (IC) utterances; above Eiswein (the leader of the caravan) is a perfect example. On 2 In this paper, I will use only the categories that help on the diachronic analysis of events, although said model also contains categories for doing synchronic analyses. More information about these categories can be found currently on my Master Thesis (i.e. Salazar 2006). A shorter version of the thesis, formatted as a journal paper, is forthcoming and yet to be published.

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the other hand, players that tend to write “ out of character” (OOC) utterances (off-topic, non RP related); use emoticons (such as “: D” or “: P”) or refer to the game in purely instrumental terms (“RESS if you can!”) are generally described as the antithesis of a “role player” (could be a “PvPer” or a “griefer”).

Similarly, Taylor (2003) uses player discourse as a way to stress the dichotomy between “power gamers” and “role players”: […] I propose [that powergamers]… actually constitute a group who play in ways we typically don’t associate with notions of “fun” and leisure. In worlds like EQ they are often juxtaposed to the role player: There are people that play for the role play aspect who say ‘thus’ and ‘forsooth’ a lot […] and then there are people who have their statistics and what’s best for advancing their character (EQ player). […]

[I’m] more what you might call a power gamer. I look at EverQuest as the numbers. If you do this you’ll get this, this is a better combination, you’ll have a better chance to kill. That’s all it is for me ( Taylor, 2003, pp.

301, 302).

The reason for citing these examples is not for merely pointing out that the identity of a player as a “role player” or a “power gamer” is contingent with his discourse, but instead, to set the stage for examining what is behind the player discourse quotations that game researchers usually cite in their papers. That is, the appropriateness of quoting this or that player utterance is determined by the extent by which said utterance fits into analytical categories that are implicitly established by the researcher. These are in turn usually related with the context on which said utterance occurred. In other words, these utterances are speech acts that occur within a speech event.

Speech Acts vs. Speech Events: A problem of focus

In a sense, player quotations are speech acts. A speech act is a “functional unit of communication” (Cohen, 1996) and includes both the performative discursive act as well as the utterance’s functional role. These units of spoken or written language are meaningful for a game researcher only if they pragmatically serve a purpose within the context of the research paper. In qualitative content analysis, this meaningfulness is dictated by the analytical categories that are in turn derived from the theoretical framework used by the researcher, his/hers academic background, life experience, research expectations…in short, by subjectivity. However, although the researcher’s subjectivity is an essential component of qualitative content analysis, it cannot be easily accounted for on its entirety on the limited number of pages or words that most research journals allow.

This might be the reason why game researchers do not necessarily always make explicit the analytical categories they use on their papers. Usually, MMORPG papers are filled with explicative and illustrative player quotes, ethnographic descriptions, screenshots and so forth; but little in regards of the meta-analysis that was needed to make them meaningful. Discourse analysis “stands or falls by its categories” (Berelson, 1971, p. 147) thus I believe that the analytical categories used by researchers to set the meaningfulness and selection criteria of player quotes, ethnographic diary entries, player interview excerpts, and other speech acts should be given a more protagonic role in digital game studies.

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In this paper I argue that focusing on speech events instead than speech acts is a much more expedite way for explaining how the researcher came about with his/her analyses. A speech event can comprise a situation on which one or more speech acts occur, and therefore it refers to the contexts on which utterances are made (Hymes, 1974). In this sense, game researchers normally select speech acts from a gameplay context, that in many cases happen to be events that occurred when the player was playing the game. Therefore, the speech event is a broader concept that not only contains the speech act in itself, but that also helps to explain the pragmatic role that a player quotation fills.

Interestingly enough, many game researchers already consciously or unconsciously describe game events as if these are units of analysis by themselves. For example: The caravan of the Argent Archives would leave for Thelsamar […] from […] the Alliance city of Ironforge [...] The dwarven Archivar Eiswein, head of the Argent Archives and organizer of the event, had asked player-characters (PCs) to arrive early so he could hand out assignments and missions. While windows loaded […] I wanted to answer some letters […] Most of them were jobs for Speckles [ the researcher’s ingame character ], who together with her twin sister Freckles forms a photographers duo called the Snap Sisters. This means they take on jobs that involve photographing characters and role play events […] in this case, the Archives caravan. […] The in-character (IC) goal of the Archives is to collect information on citizens throughout Azeroth.

Announcing the upcoming caravan, Eswein wrote on the forums: The Argent Archives […] collects information on every character of the realm, organizing it into a great archive…(Eiswein, Argent Dawn forum. 12 September 2006) Either as guards or merchants, role-players and RP guilds were invited to join the bi-weekly caravan by which the archives are moved to a new town or village where guild members would interview the inhabitants… […] I looked around and noticed more and more delegates from role-play guilds, and when it was time to leave approximately 30 player-characters had gathered[…] Eiswein started to yell […]: Ok, time to get this on the road … (Copier, 2007, pp. 67,68,90,91).

The author then goes on to describe the series of incidents that followed on the “Argent Archives Caravan”. All throughout the “thick description” of her ethnographic experiences in WoW, the author uses events like this one as an axis upon which to base the explanation of how role-players negotiate their social identity in the WoW’s Argent Dawn server. This illustrates how the speech event per se, and not the speech act, seems to be the real unit of analysis of the ethnography.

However, even though these kind of speech events have been widely utilized in virtual community and online game research (see for example, Rheingold, 1993; Turkle, 1995; Yee, 2003; and Taylor, 2006) there has not been much literature dedicated to the discussion on how to conceptualize game events as units of analysis in their own right. This is precisely the main focus of this paper: I intend to shift the focus away from the speech act and concentrate in the speech event.

In the following section, I explain how a certain type of game event that I like to call Identity Liminal Event (ILE) can be used as an unit of analysis for studying diachronic aspects of social identity (re)production in MMORPGs. The analytical categories to be applied to the

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events in question are derived from Salazar’s (2006) theoretical model for the explanation of social identity (re)production. The speech acts taken from the event constitute the minimal units of content that would fill these categories.

The Identity Liminal Event: A Methodological Artifact

The notion of an “Identity Liminal Event” came to mind during my ethnographic research on social identity (re)production processes, conducted in the Star Wars Galaxies (SWG) MMORPG. After two and a half years’ worth of qualitative data gathering, the resulting amount of raw information was so overwhelming that I was forced to examine all my ethnographic diary notes, stored forum posts, interview transcriptions and personal thoughts and recollections about my experiences during the research on a extremely selective way. I found myself going through all the information over and over again looking for events, experiences, incidents and anecdotes upon which I could see “crystal clear” manifestations of social identity’s symbolic codes.

The resulting “chunk of anecdotes and incidents” (as I liked to call them at the beginning) are what I refer to as Identity Liminal Events (ILEs). An ILE is either an elicited or natural “happening” in a frame of time of a group’s life. Upon an ILE, the group forcefully or spontaneously co-constructs its identity upon an event on which identity boundaries, exclusion/inclusion codes, ingroup/outgroup emergence, narrative and spatial codes are experienced by its members on a “point blank” level. This occurs to the point that it could trigger a dramatic awareness of the group’s own identitary constructions. On a discursive level, an ILE is a speech event on which a group’s discourse can be analyzed in terms of how it constructs its own social identity.

It is important to point out, though, that an ILE can be practically any experiential moment of a group member’s or researcher’s life on which an enhanced level of individual or collective awareness of a certain identity related aspect is achieved. Empirically, they can also be regarded as “insights” ( in the Gestaltian sense of the word) and are subjective experiences that may only be significant by whoever experienced it. The general procedure for identifying an ILE I believe is already being practiced by most qualitative MMORPG researchers: when going through their ethnographic data, the researcher should pay special attention to any particularly well engraved anecdote or chain of incidents and select those that have an obvious illustrative power of the studied group’s identity.

The intention of proposing this idea is that I believe that the “Identity Liminal Event” concept is useful for the study of themes related to player typologies and social identities in MMORPGs. I see them as methodological artifacts, as tools that would allow the researcher to depict a moment on the studied group’s life that is key for the understanding of what it means to be a member of said group. The utility of an ILE is proportional to the extent on which the researcher is able to justify the communication of such event as a valid asset for the fulfillment of the research’s objective.

As an example of how to apply the ILE concept, I will present two cases:

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The first one is an already mentioned speech event taken from Copier’s (2007) ethnography on the role playing guilds of the Argent Dawn WoW server, The Argent Archives Caravan. The intention behind bringing forth this event is twofold; a) to demonstrate that the ILE framework presented in this article could be potentially used to re-analyze events posted by other researchers; and b) to re-allocate the discussion of “what it means to be a role-player” into an alternative set of analytical categories that can also be useful to understand the RP’ing (roleplaying) phenomena.

The second speech event was taken from my own ethnography on SWG. I will describe a player Wedding Incident on which the analytical categories of Salazar’s (2006) social identity model can be thoroughly exemplified.

The Argent Archives Caravan: Re-explaining What it Means to be a role-player.

In regards of who started the Argent Archives Caravan, Copier (2007) describes that Eiswein, a player whom she describes as an avid role-player, was the leader of the guild that was behind it: Eiswein had started the Argent Archives role-play guild […] as a fictional subdivision of the Ironforge Library. This library is part of the pre-designed world universe of Warcraft. In-game, the library can be found in one of the dark halls of the circularly built city of Ironforge […] The Hall of Explorers contains both the Ironforge library and a museum […] Behind the museum lies the library, which is populated by members of the NPC guild of the Explorers League. They send players on quests to the many archaeological dig-sites where the League is researching the origin of the dwarven race … The game holds no further information on the library itself, which enabled Eiswein to make up his own story, without breaking the rules of Warcraft’s lore as it has been written throughout the different games that Blizzard Entertainment published in this setting. During the previous two weeks [from the caravan’s departure], Eiswein and other members of the Argent Archives were often found in the library, where they were performing their roles of scribe or messenger. (Copier, 2007, pp. 67-68)

In this excerpt we can clearly see how, in principle, the foundations of the Argent Archives’ identity as a role playing guild could be traced back to a set of narrative and spatial codes.

Within the narrative space that was given by the environment of WoW and the consistent lore that comes with it, the founders of the Argent Archives took some of its existing narrative codes - the existence of a library that supposedly contains archives on Azeroth and its inhabitants, the existence of an Explorer League that already has a similar task on documenting its history - and mixed them with narrative codes of their own creation (a story behind the Argent Archives guild, a story behind the roles of scribe or messenger, etc.).

These narrative codes are also intertwined with spatial codes. According to the social identity model, player guilds in MMORPGS usually appropriate an ascription space, a space that is either created by the player guilds (in case of MMORPGs that allow players to build cities, for example) or delimitated within the game environment and that player guilds end up calling “their own”. In the case of the Argent Archives, players ascribed to the Ironforge Library, and their identity as a guild was directly linked with this spatial code. Indeed, the author later describes

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how the starting place of the Caravan was the library itself, and how it was in the library that Eiswein arranged the missions and roles for each of the caravan’s members In this sense, narrative and spatial codes were key in terms of making the Argent Archives coincide with Azeroth. It is because there is an Ironforge Library and an Explorer League and because there is lore behind that it is possible for the members of the Argent Archives to let their subjectivity flow and construct roles and stories that were consistent with World of Warcraft.

In relation to why the caravan occurred, the author describes: Out of character [OOC], Eiswein explained on the forum that his aims with the guild were not only to give his guild members (and anyone who interacts with the Argent Archives) participation in an open ended plot line, but also to strengthen the ties between the guilds on the Argent Dawn server, to search for undiscovered talented role-players, and to encourage politeness, role-playing, and comradeship in the community. (Copier, 2007, p. 68)

This is a good example of the nature of an Identity Liminal Event. ILEs are, of course, open ended; they can be spontaneous or elicited (as in this case) but what truly characterize them is the fact that they put group members in a position on which they are forced to allocate themselves within a complex set of group relationships, making sense out of their own identity as a group, of how do they describe themselves, identifying as members and non members, what holds the group together, and where the group stands within the bigger picture, among other responsibilities. Hence, it is no surprise that because Copier’s thesis explains the process by which players in a WoW server socially “negotiate” and “contest” their play style and identities as role-players, she would pick an event like the Argent Caravan to portray how a role playing group identified their members (who is or could be “in”), which are its “others” (allies, enemies), and how they relate with other groups.

As it turned out, the author describes that upon departure the Caravan was composed by the Argent Archives’ members (the ingroup, as it was the guild to which the researcher became a member and it was from the standpoint of the role of the guild’s photographer from which she describes the ethnographic experience), other RP players and guilds (the close others) and within all these there were various subgroups according to the roles and missions needed for the caravan to succeed (the innergroups). Examples that the author names include: “achivars”, “librarians”, “scholars”, “nobles”, “merchants”, “scouts”, “mercenaries” and “guards”.

The inclusion codes used for identifying who could participate in the Caravan can be found among the negotiated conventions that, according to the author, were used by players in the Argent Dawn server to identify with the role-playing style of play ( talking IC, walking instead of running, doing emotes, behaving and emitting utterances that were consistent with the Caravan’s plot, and so forth). These conventions constitute an important element upon which participants in the Caravan constructed identity boundaries that defined who was “in” and who was “out”: […]one player did not role play and grew more impatient as time passed[…]

Ironforge Gates […] Nightgarde says: ok… and then we go …ok?? […] Nightgarde says: can I get in a group

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On the road […] Nightgarde says: where are we going? […] Nightgarde has joined group […] [Raid] Nightgarde: what is there in that town we going to?

At the quarry […] [Raid] Nightgarde: OK::: LETS GO […] [Raid] Nightgarde yells: why do we walk when we can run? […] Nightgarde can be considered a “griefer”, a player who deliberately sets out to harass other playercharacters by abusing game mechanics (in this case, chat) with the aim of having negative impact on others, thus causing grief […] Nightgarde did not seem to grief on purpose, however, he just did not understand what was going on […] As Nightgarde was ignored by other players he was unable to find out that walking is part of role-playing a coherent caravan experience. (Copier, 2007, p.109-110).

The far others of the Argent Archives Caravan appeared during its travels, when it got attacked by a number of opposing player characters who, whilst assuming the role of bands of bandits, sought to interfere and rob the caravan’s documents and merchandise. In a role playing sense, the opposing players are assigned exclusion codes as a means to identify them as non members of the caravan. Among these the author mentions the evil “Demonologists” guild and the mafia-like “Legitimate Business Club”, which staged “a bandit hold up” on the caravan that resulted in one of the bandits being captured and later put on an IC trial.

It could be said though, that Argent Archives being the ingroup and the rest of the guilds and players being its outgroups is just one way of examining it. If we consider that the social identity of the “role players” of Argent Dawn has to do with differentiating them from those that do not role play, then another level of analysis appears. Copier (2007) emphasizes that this kind of RP based style of play is sustained by highly contested and socially negotiated player interactions, or in other words, by a process of invention, creation, re-creation, production and reproduction of a dynamic set of symbolic representations. Therefore, to understand the social identity of a group of players as “RP’ers” it is necessary to investigate the narrative and spatial codes they use, how they construct inclusion and exclusion categories, and what kind of identity boundaries do they establish within a complex social landscape of friendly/diplomatic relations, alliances and animosities.

Indeed, just as it is difficult to understand what “black” means unless we know what’s the meaning of “white”, or what’s the meaning of “good” unless we know what’s the meaning of “evil” (or any other dialectic opposites), understanding what defines a “role player” is dependent on understanding what it is to be a “PvP’er”, or a “Raider”, or a “Griefer”. After five biweekly caravans done by the Argent Archives, the last one ended in a mayor confrontation with Horde players, among which there were the “Free Cookies”, a guild that could be called “PvP’ers”. The player reflections that Copier posted in regard of this event clearly show how, when faced with the far others, a rich elaboration of what it means to be “us” ensues: These […] comments on the event illustrate the tensions between the different types of instrumental and roleplay taking place in the same server: Albie (participant in caravan,1): The problem is not world pvp as such. Feel free to run a blitz through the caravan killing everything in sight – we keep pvp on to enable this being a possibility. Heck, that would even be nice, if we were allowed to pick up the pieces, tend to the wounded and RP our losses” (Argent Dawn forum, 22 October 2006) Zimbad (Horde attacker, 2): …I recently had a conversation with the “spiritual leader” of Free Cookies. And his mind appears rather odd. Apparently, PvP is all about annoying other players and they enjoy it when

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people whine about them because it shows that their job is done… All I can say is: Sad, sad person. ( Argent Dawn forum, 22 October 2006)” (cited in Copier, 2007, p. 122)

Last but not least, a radical other is also present in the form of the WoW developers.

From Copier’s accounts, the role that the developers play on shaping Argent Dawn’s scene is subtle: they only provide the playing environment, the Warcraft lore and a “Realm Policy” that loosely regulates the conventions of an RP server. They rarely intervene on enforcing these policies unless players report griefing or misbehavior from other players. However, I would like to add that although subtle, the role that developers play in social identity (re)production is still a powerful one. Because developers are a kind of a “higher power” in MMORPGs, players often construct images of their own identities directed towards grabbing the attention of these “the powers that be”. Players usually do this as a means for demanding game features or policy amendments that would allow them to have a more consistent self image, or an identity that they feel is more concordant with the game as whole: I Have a Dream

by Martin Luther King Jr. adapted by Bippi One year ago, a great CM [community manager, MC], in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Roleplaying Policy. This momentous decree came as a beacon light of hope to thousands of players who had been seared in the flames of 1337 speak [or “elite speak,” a discursive code commonly associated with PvP’ers and Griefers]… But one year later we must face the tragic fact that the roleplayer is still not free.

One year later, the life of the role player is still sadly crippled by the manacles of non-rping and the chains of discrimination...One year later the roleplayer is still languishing in the corners of Argent Dawn and finds himself an exile in his own server… …When we let the roleplaying ring … we will be able to speed up that day when all of Argent Dawn’s children, Men and Night Elves, Orcs and Trolls, Gnomes and Tauren, Forsaken and Dwarves, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Argent Dawn motto, “Free at last! free at last! thank Blizzard [italic added], we are free at last!” (Bippi, cited by Copier, 2007, pp 44, 65).

In this excerpt, on which Bippi tries to give a “RP” twist to Martin Luther King’s landmark speech, we can see how the developers of WoW, in this case Blizzard, play a symbolic role on triggering identity invention, creation, recreation and (re)production.

The Wedding Incident: Wedding Crashers Meets Star Wars.

Between June 2003 and December 2005, I conducted an ethnographic research on the Star Wars Galaxies (SWG) MMORPG. My character’s name was Eter Solwalker, a rangercarbineer that I liked to role play as a “Xenoanthropologist”, interested in understanding the cultural practices of different races that inhabited in that “galaxy, far, far away” OOC–wise. I was studying social identity (re)production on the ARDAIT “Player Association” (henceforth referred as “PA” - the SWG equivalent to a “guild”) in the Saturn Galaxy3. A week before the “Wedding Incident”, I wrote on my ethnographic diary: Just a few months after ARDAIT founded its beloved city “Mos Cow” near Anchorhead, Tatooine, there could have not been a better moment to be a member of ARDAIT. “Mos Cow” was a vibrant city, the number of active players in ARDAIT was on one of its peaks, Mos Cow had just been granted the status of 3 ARDAIT accepted me as a member and granted me permission to conduct a study on them under the condition that the name of the guild, city they founded, galaxy (server on which they inhabit) and player characters that participated in the research remained anonymous. Therefore, in this paper all names and other identifying cues were changed in order to honor this confidentiality agreement.

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“Metropolis” (the highest city status the game could give to a player city, it allowed the placement of advanced communal structures such as a Shuttleport) the ARDAIT Mall located in the very heart of the city was a bustling and well known trade location (ARDAIT’ crafters, some of Saturn’s best, had their vendors there), Mos Cow was the place to be if you wanted to meet with other ARDAITers. (Salazar, 2004, p. 241.

SWG’s Ethnographic Diary, unpublished)

ARDAIT and its home city, Mos Cow, were an indivisible unit. To understand this relationship, we have to go back to the summer of 2003, when ARDAIT was founded. The Anchorhead Rebel Democracy Against Imperial Tyranny (ARDAIT) was a PA founded as a result of the Galactic Civil War (GCW), a climatic war depicted in the Star Wars movies between the Rebel Alliance and the Galactic Empire. Its founding fathers (Tock, Nur, Fist, Adios and Ketchup) were a group of rebel-aligned players that usually coincided in the rebel town of Anchorhead. Back then, Anchorhead was considered the rebel hub because of the relative ease of access it provided to rebel mission terminals. This meant that it was an ideal choice for Imperial aligned players (Imps) to engage in PvP: when a rebel was doing missions for the Alliance, they were automatically flagged as “overt” rebels or got a “TEF” (Temporary Enemy Flag) and were thus prone to be attacked by “imps”. After days of being constantly bashed by imperial raids, the founding fathers started organizing whatever rebel player they could muster from within Anchorhead. Eventually, they drove the “Imps” away, inclusion codes started emerging, and the PA (the ingroup) was born.

Upon creation, the founding fathers placed their PA Hall (a player created structure that is needed to found a PA) as near to Anchorhead as the game allowed them to. When the developers embedded into the game the possibility for PAs to build their own cities, they built “Mos Cow” in that same spot. Similar to how the Argent Archives appropriated the Ironforge Library and constructed a narrative behind it, ARDAIT’s “raison d'etre” was strongly linked with spatial codes bounded by the ascription space (Anchorhead) they swore to defend and by narrative codes that revolved around their identity as rebels occupying a historical place within the GCW; which in turn was a part of a larger narrative space set by the Star Wars lore.

As it was suggested in the diary entry, by the time the “Wedding Incident” happened ARDAIT was in its height: it had amassed a reputation in the Saturn social fabric as a force to be reckoned with, it was one of the biggest rebel PAs in Saturn and many of its members were the MMORPG Server equivalent of a Hollywood celebrity. Such was the case of Boo, the bride, a visable and successful tailor-crafter in the Saturn Forums. She was famous for her funny posts, for the quirky tabloid-like gossip column she ran on the forums, as well as a cherished prima donna within Saturn’s social networks. The groom was Nur, Mos Cow’s elected Mayor and one of ARDAIT’s leaders and founding fathers. Invitations were sent and all of Saturn’s personalities and high ranking officials of prominent PAs were going to be there. For me, it was among the best occasions I would ever get to observe the social dynamics between ARDAIT’s and its outgroups: Amazing. So many players in here […] there’s gotta be over 200 in the PA Hall alone. Naturally, ARDAIT’s allies and friends are here, but seeing so many of ARDAIT’s enemies, the leaders of “GIT”, of “Sanctum”[…] Even “The Outlookers” are here, although rebel, they usually cant meet eye to eye with GIT[...] When I saw those invitations I was sure this was recipe for disaster. Boo had asked all of them to please leave their differences aside, to not come with their overt flag on, and that if they wanted to fight they could take it outside when everything was over. It is interesting how a witty and charming personality such as Boo’s could have such power over Saturn’ s social networks and bring everyone together under a same role playing flag … Later on an interview, Tock had suggested that there was a “friendly animosity” between

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ARDAIT and its enemies. It is now that I can truly understand and experience that… then again, there’s the Rigor Syndicate … but nah, they wont come. They wont do that … not to Boo. I don't even know why I accepted Nur’s call to become part of Mos Cow’s Militia … In case something happens in the wedding - Nur said […] yes I am Master Carbineer [one of the combat professions of SWG] but I am no PvP’er, not even a bit” ( Salazar, 2004, p. 245. SWG’s Ethnographic Diary, unpublished).

The Rigor Syndicate (RS), known as an (in)famous Imperial PA of the Saturn Galaxy, was at that time ARDAIT’s nemesis. Role playing as a special imperial unit under the command of the mythical “Lord Rigor”,a player character that claimed to be next in line to Emperor Palpatine and Darth Vader, they were a tightly knit group of PvP’ers trained in the right combat professions for pvp’ing. They were also armed with the best available gear. Through a strict sense of discipline and coordinated effort, they had mastered the game’s mechanics to a point where they were unstoppable in PvP. They saw themselves as the personification of the evilness of the Galactic Empire, and from that standpoint they were active and visible on the Saturn forums, arrogantly preaching the “Church of Lord Rigor’s teachings”. This professed the absolute annihilation of everyone who opposed the Empire. Feared and hated by rebels and loathed and envied by the rest of the Imperial PAs that were nowhere near their level of success, they had an ambivalent reputation: from one side they were called griefers, exploiters, harassers, and cheaters, but from the other side they were also admired and respected in awe. There was no doubt they worked hard to be such a formidable killing machine: Smash shouts: Everybody Freeze! The Galactic Empire declares this is an unauthorized gathering and we have information that there are members of the Rebel Alliance within you. Don’t move! Stop your celebration, remain in your places and wait until you get questioned. Nobody leaves the building! All Hail Lord Rigor!”( SWG in-game chatlog, 2004)

There they were, ARDAIT’s farthest far other of all, about twelve members of the RS, clad on their landmark black composite armor with white right arm pieces. What ensued was all kind of emotes and in game shouts asking them to leave. While some ignored them, Boo later stated that she had politely asked Smash through a private tell to please let at least the ceremony finish. But I knew that if RS followed their typical modus operandi, they would not leave until they got a fight. They would role play being imperial enforcers shutting down an illegal gathering until they could get into the nerves of every single rebel that was in there. By this point in time, ARDAIT had developed a few somewhat overlapping innergroups: the crafters (players interested on the trade aspects of the game, crafting wares and selling them), RPers and PvPers, and they all reacted differently to RS’ challenge: This is the first time I can see crystal clear all of ARDAIT’s innergroups interacting. The role players, headed by Boo, are trying to role play a defiant but funny reaction towards RS. The crafters are either ignoring the whole thing or sending private tells to ARDAIT’s leaders, beckoning them to act. The PvPers were about to bite the bait […] as I saw them switching into their composite armors, Nur sends me a tell: “ur militia now, get into your compo armor and go outside” ( Salazar, 2004:245. SWG’s Ethnographic Diary, unpublished).

Seeing Nur speed up the wedding , Boo roleplaying the teary bride that is giving the last kiss to her soon-to-die new husband, I wondered why they took the bait, since the wedding was not halfway complete. The battle began and I became “incapped” (incapacitated) and dblowed (deathblowed) within seconds, but I was surprised to see how Mos Cow’s Militia, aided by an important contingent of other rebel PA’s such as “The Outlookers” actually made the RS fall back. It must have been the first time ever that any of us saw the RS retreating. More than joy, it

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seemed to be perplexion. It seemed so unreal to actually feel to have defeated the RS: all it took was to “incap” a couple of them and almost get to Smash, their Combat Medic and poison specialist. It was indeed unreal because a few minutes later they cleverly came again and “incapped” and “dblowed” every single rebel that was left standing. Waves of rebel players being respawned in Mos Cow’s Med Center, RS waited and methodically decimated them all.

Cartmann, one of ARDAIT’s milita, was the only one that tirelessly kept getting killed, respawned in the med center just to be killed again, over and over again: [PA Chat] Joytek: Cartmann, please stop! You are just making a fool of urself getting killed over and over again! Stop giving RS what they want! JUST LET IT GO! [ PA Chat] Cartmann: cant believe this. iT IS ALL OF YOU WHO SHOULD BE EMBARRASED! [ PA Chat] Boo: *sigh* [PA Chat] Cartmann: This is ur city remember! How can u just stand there and not do anything to defend it? ( SWG in-game chatlog, 2004).

Nur, reflecting on the whole incident a few days later, said in an interview: I regret taking the bait now… but then… c’mon, what was I supposed to do?. It was like being in Anchorhead on the early days all over again … Imps coming and blatantly picking on us… After all, ARDAIT was founded to fight exactly that… back then it was in Anchorhead, but now was in Mos Cow, our very own home turf! … We were once the PA powerhouse of Saturn, then RS came and we lost that spot… but we still are rebels, we, as a PA, are against the style of play that RS wants to put into us, I wanted to teach them they cant just keep doing what they always do, even if it ruined my wedding…(Nur, interviewed in 2004)

This evidences how strongly a few narrative and spatial codes can influence the behavior of an entire group, even in an MMORPG. The identity boundaries that had been socially constructed as a result of “othering” the RS were too pervasive to simply let it go. The social identity of ARDAIT as a group was at stake, hanging in a delicate balance of conflictive narrative, spatial and inclusion/exclusion codes.

However, the real battle of the “Wedding Incident” was not fought in Mos Cow, but in the Saturn Forums. The thread became a heated flame war, expanding over ten wide pages, on which one player even compared them with the Nazi mindset. As a reply: Smash : Why are you sooo quick to push your playing style on us? Who says yours is right and ours is wrong? You call us egotistical? Yet you are the people that pop on the boards and try to spout how we aren't playing the game the way YOU want us too. NOT ONCE have I seen My PA come online and tell you the way you play is incorrect. Yet EVERY day, we hit the so called papers with the headlines.. Of how we did this and how we did that... I'm here to role play! and role play I will... Your med centers will not be safe if you are OVERT/TEF rebel, your cantina's will NOT BE SAFE if you are OVERT/TEF.. and yes, YOUR WEDDING ARENT SAFE NEITHER. There are no safe havens in the game except your house. So if you don't want to be killed and ur overt, run your little butt into your house and set it to private. Or better yet, go online and remove yourself from the Rebel faction and be neutral! You act as if you were walking through Anchorhead and all of a sudden you just "Became a Rebel" … The designers of the game made it so going OVERT was a dangerous thing [italics added], yet you seem to all want to sit around with your overt flag and wave at each other. That is why we CAN and WILL continue kicking your overt rebel butt.

P.S. And to this idiot that is trying to say that RS is like Hitler and the Holocaust.. Wow!!! I can't believe it!!! I would love to hear you say that to a Jew that was in a camp, I'd bet he smack you in the mouth for being so ignorant to bring RL horror into something as small an insignificant as a game online (Saturn forum, 2004).

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This illustrates the kind of negotiation processes involved in MMORPG role play. As an imagination exercise, I always thought that if I lived in the Star Wars universe and was a rebel, I would have to be submitted to exactly the same kind of things that RS’s behavior tried to emulate. However, there I was, studying a community of fans that paid a monthly fee to “live the Star Wars experience”, that signed into the Rebel Alliance because they wanted to fight against the Empire and who were warned of the conditions that would flag them as “overt” rebel or “TEF” (Temporary Enemy Flag)…but still, they loathed feeling the oppression of the Empire at such a visceral level. Copier (2007) suggests that this “irony” is a result of the “contested nature” of role play. Indeed, it is contested because of the complexities involved in handling the many levels of inclusion and exclusion processes that happen in multi player environments, on which the narrative aspect of role play ( e.g.. the existence of Star Wars lore that justifies RS’s actions) is just one of the various intervening symbolic codes that should be considered.

The flamewar became more climatic when Dogg, one of the members of “The Oulookers”, threatened to track down a RS member real life, so he could face him and see if he “would still be willing to talk back”. This triggered the intervention of the radical other; a forum manager locked down the thread with the following post: This thread has been locked. SOE [Sony Online Entertainment] would to remind the community members to read the forum policies to avoid the closing of threads. (Saturn forum, 2004)

Although a few ARDAIT members admittedly reported the behavior of RS to SWG Customer Representatives, considering that their attitude interfered with their gameplay by not allowing the wedding to proceed, no action was ever taken. Assumedly, because the Rigor Syndicate role played being the Empire and did not verbally abuse in-game other players nor exploited the game mechanics, no fault was to be seen. After all, as Smash defended on his post, the features put into the game by the developers allowed and justified RS’s actions. In this case, the radical other’s role is then, both “tough luck” for the affected as well as a “providence” for the perpetrators.

Conclusion

In this paper, it was my intention to stimulate the discussion about the analytical categories and methodological artifacts that qualitative game researchers use while directing attention towards speech events instead of speech acts in MMORPGs. The theoretical framework used for this purpose is already applicable to a wide arrange of published material in MMORPG studies, however, this does not mean that this model should necessary be a substitute for the analytical categories already used by their authors. As any theoretical model, the framework presented in this paper is prescriptive, and by being so it is biased towards certain sociolinguistics schools of thought and social identity theories. Digital Games Studies, as a field of study, is nurtured by a healthy amount of disciplines and research traditions, and in a sense, this variety constitutes one of its strengths.

Nevertheless, I believe that by discussing different approaches and re-examining published literature with alternate perspectives can drive game researchers towards the search of

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a much needed common language, one that respects and encourages variety but also recognizes the need of having a consensus in regards of which analytical categories could be useful to explain game phenomena. By proposing the notion of “Identity Liminal Events” as a methodological artifact I intend to contribute, but not to end this discussion.

As a prospective for the theoretical model of social identity (re)production, the “Identity Liminal Events” concept is a addition that can only account for the diachronic analysis of social identity (re)production; albeit the former framework does also contain categories for explaining the synchronic aspects of this process. This leaves an open opportunity for furthering the discussion on the possible analytical categories that could be applied when doing longitudinal studies of MMORPGs.

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Bibliography Bartle, R. (1996). Hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades: Players who suit MUD’s. Retrieved eptember 15, 2008 from: www.brandeis.edu/pubs/joye/HTML/v1/Bartle.html Bartle, R. (2003). Designing virtual worlds. Indianapolis: New Riders Publishing. USA. Benwell, B. & Stokoe, E. (2006). Discourse and identity. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Edinburgh.

Berelson, B. (1971). Content analysis in communication research. New York: Glencoe..

Cohen, A. (1996). Speech acts. In: S. L. McKay & N.H. Hornberger (Eds.), Sociolinguistics and language teaching. Cambridge University Press, pp. 383-420.

Copier, M. (2007). Beyond the magic circle: A network perspective on role-play in online games. Doctoral dissertation. Utrecht University. Netherlands.

Edwards, R. (2001). GNS and other matters of role play theory. The forge: The internet home for independent role-playing games. Retrieved September 16, 2008 from: http://www.indierpgs.com/articles/1/ Edwards, R.(2003). Gamism: Step on Up. The forge: The internet home for independent roleplaying games. Retrieved September 16, 2008 from: http://www.indie-rpgs.com/articles/21/ Foster, D. (1997). Community and identity in the electronic village. In: Porter, D. (ed). Internet Culture. New York: Routledge.

Garcia G. (1996). Consideraciones generales sobre los códigos utilizados en la invención, recreación y negociación de la identidad nacional. Revista Opción. Año 12, No. 20, pp. 5-15.

Hymes, D. (1974). Foundations in sociolinguistics: An ethnographic approach. Fifth printing.

Cinnaminson, New Jersey: The University of Pennsylvannia Press..

Karslen, F. (2004). Media complexity and diversity of use: Thought on a taxonomy of users of multiuser online games. Paper presented at the Other Players conference Center for Computer Games Research, IT University of Copenhagen, Denmark.

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Rheingold, H. (1993) The virtual community: Homesteading on the electronic frontier. AddisonWesley Publishing Company. USA. Salazar, J. (2006). Social identity (re)Production in MMORPGs: A case study of Star Wars Galaxy. Thesis for the title of Magister Scientiarum in Human Informatics. Tohoku Gakuin University. Japan.

Salazar, J. (2005). On the ontology of MMORPG beings: A theoretical model for research. Paper presented at the Digital Games Research Association (DIGRA) Conference “Changing Views : Worlds in Play”. Conference Proceedings. Simon Fraser University. Vancouver, Canada. Retrieved September 20, 2008 from: salazarjavier.mindspages.net/mmorpgbeings.pdf

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Salazar, J. (2004). Cybontology: The ontology of the online being and the (re)allocation of the notion of the “cyborg”. II Congreso Online del Observatorio para la Cibersociedad.

Retrieved September 16, 2008 from: http://www.cibersociedad.net/congres2004/index_es.html Taylor, T.L. (2006). Play between worlds: Exploring online game culture. Boston: MIT Press.

Taylor, T.L. (2003) Power gamers just want to have fun?: Instrumental play in a MMOG. . Paper presented at the Digital Games Research Association (DIGRA) Conference “Level Up”.

Conference Proceedings. University of Utrecht, Netherlands.

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Wilbur, Shawn. (1997) An archaelogy of cyberspaces: Virtuality, community, identity. In: Porter, D. (ed). Internet Culture. New York: Routledge.

Yee, N. (2008) Welcome to the Daedalus Project. Retrieved September 22, 2008 from: http://www.nickyee.com/daedalus/archives/001641.php Yee, N. (2003) An ethnography of MMORPG weddings. The Daedalus Projects. Retrieved September 22, 2008 from: http://www.nickyee.com/daedalus/archives/000467.php Yee, N. (2002). Five motivation factors for why people play MMORPGs. The Daedalus Project.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

Striking a Balance between Property and Personality The Case of the Avatars

by Norberto Nuno Gomes de Andrade, European University Institute, Florence, Italy

Abstract Virtual worlds, as powerful social platforms of intense human interaction, gather millions of users worldwide, producing massive economies of their own, giving rise to the birth of complex social relationships and the formation of virtual communities. By enabling the creativity of the player and figuring as an outstanding example of new online collaborative environments, virtual worlds emerge as context for creation, allowing for users to undertake a digital alter-ego and become artists, creators and authors. Nevertheless, such digital egos are not merely creations, but a reflex of their creators, an extension of their personalities and indicia of their identities. As a result, this paper perceives the avatar not only as a property item (avatar as the player’s or [game-developer’s] property) but also, and simultaneously, as a reflex of our personality and identity (avatar as the projection of one self in the virtual domain, as part of an individual persona). Bearing in mind such hybrid configuration, and looking at the disputes over property rights in virtual words, this essay makes three fundamental arguments.

Firstly, it proposes a re-interpretation of intellectual property rights (namely of copyright law) according to its underlying utilitarian principles, as such principles seem to have been forgotten or neglected in the sphere of virtual worlds. The idea is to re-balance the uneven relationship between game owners and players perpetuated by the end-user license agreements (EULAs), recognising property rights to users over their own virtual creations. In order to evaluate whether a user’s contribution to the virtual world amounts to an original and creative work and is worthy of copyright protection, the essay proposes the image of a jigsaw puzzle as a tool and criteria to carry out such examination.

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Secondly, the author states that the utilitarian theoretical justification for intellectual property rights does not account for all the dimensions and aspects involved in the user/avatar relationship, namely for the personal attachment and the process of self-identification the former develops toward the latter. In order to fill such lacuna, the author resorts to Margaret Jane Radin’s Theory of “Property for Personhood.” In this context, Radin’s theory is deemed to be successful in capturing the personal attachment users develop with their avatars, recognizing such characters not merely as property interests, but as personal and intimate connections to one’s sense of self. Furthermore, such theoretical perspective reinforces the convergence of both property and personality dimensions upon the figure avatar, a key feature of this character.

Thirdly, the author argues in favor of granting users with virtual property rights over avatars, drawing from Fairfield’s theory of virtual property, but justifying such entitlement in light of Radin’s theory of “Property for Personhood.” By articulating a hierarchy of stronger and weaker property entitlements in terms of their relationship to personhood (through the image of a continuum from fungible to personal), Radin’s theory is indicated as particularly suitable to resolve property rights disputes between game owners and users. Such understanding is based upon the conceptualization of the avatar as personal property, which, according to the “Property for Personhood” thesis, merits stronger legal protection than fungible property.

Finally, by combining Property for Personhood theory with the Utilitarian one, the paper advocates a more “ecumenical” view in the articulation of the different property theories, refuting the generalized prejudice of perceiving them as rival and incompatible perspectives.

Keywords: virtual worlds; avatars; property; personality; intellectual property; personhood; virtual property.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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Table of Contents Scope, Claims and Structure of the Paper......................................................................... 6 I. Property and Personality: An Introduction.................................................................... 8 II. Virtual Worlds and Avatars........................................................................................ 11 A. Virtual Worlds and the “new” Cyberspace: Geography and Population ................... 12 B. Avatars - Concept, Definition and Implications within Virtual Worlds .................... 13 C. Avatars at the Crossroad between Property and Personality...................................... 14 III. Virtual Worlds and Theories of Property.................................................................. 17 A. Theory of Virtual Property......................................................................................... 19 B. The Mismatch between Virtual and Intellectual Property ......................................... 20 C. Intellectual Property Law and Avatars....................................................................... 21 D. The Question of Ownership within Virtual Worlds and the Turbulent Relationship between Game-Developers and Users ............................................................................ 23 IV. Special Nature of Virtual Worlds and the difficulties in applying IP Law to such environments................................................................................................................... 25 A. The Two Problems of IP law ..................................................................................... 26 B. The “Dogma” Problem............................................................................................... 27 V. Jigsaw Puzzle ............................................................................................................. 30 A. Virtual World Puzzle ................................................................................................. 30 B. Virtual World Problem............................................................................................... 32 VI. Beyond the Jigsaw Puzzle… .................................................................................... 36 A. The “Mirror” Problem................................................................................................ 36 B. Theory of “Property for Personhood” ........................................................................ 37 C. Problems in applying the Theory of Property for Personhood in the Virtual Realm. 39 1. Heterogeneity and Diversity of Avatars ..................................................................... 39 2. The mismatch between Virtual and Intellectual Property........................................... 40 3. The “Market” Problem................................................................................................ 43 D. Merits and Suitability of the Theory .......................................................................... 47 Conclusion ...................................................................................................................... 49

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Striking a Balance between Property and Personality The Case of the Avatars

by Norberto Nuno Gomes de Andrade, European University Institute, Florence, Italy

Scope, Claims and Structure of the Paper This paper places the avatars at a crossroad between property and personality. From a legal point of view, such peculiar standing is very interesting as it forces us to conceptualize those characters not only as a property item (avatar as the player’s or [game-developer’s] property) but also, and simultaneously, as a reflex of our personality and identity (avatar as the projection of one self in the virtual domain, as part of an individual persona). Bearing in mind such hybrid configuration, and looking at the disputes over property rights in virtual words, between game owners and users, this essay makes two fundamental arguments.

Firstly, it proposes a re-interpretation1 of intellectual property rights (namely of copyright law) according to its underlying utilitarian principles, as such principles seem to have been forgotten or neglected in the sphere of virtual worlds. The idea is to re-balance the uneven relationship between game owners and players perpetuated by the so-called end-user license agreements (EULAs),2 which forces users to waive any property rights before entering the virtual world, recognising property rights to users over their own virtual creations. In order to evaluate whether a user’s contribution to the virtual world amounts to an original and creative work and is worthy of copyright protection, the essay proposes the image of a jigsaw puzzle as a tool to carry out such examination.

Secondly, the author argues that the utilitarian theoretical justification for intellectual property rights does not account for all the dimensions and aspects involved in the user/avatar relationship, namely for the personal attachment and the process of self-identification the former develops toward the latter. As such, the author argues in favor of a virtual property right over the avatar, attributed to the user and grounded upon Margaret Jane Radin’s theory of “Property for Personhood,” in certain relationships established between the user and the avatar (combining thus Radin’s thesis with Fairfield’s theory of virtual property). By emphasizing the dispute resolution function of Radin’s theory, the author identifies the latter as particularly suitable to resolve property rights disagreements in virtual worlds. In this sense, it is argued that Radin’s theory provides a supportive argument for the users’ ownership of avatars and a possible solution for a property rights dispute against the game owner.

The paper is divided into six parts. Accordingly, Part I introduces the two lines of enquiry guiding our analysis of the avatars: property and personality. Such part examines the inextricable and historical connection between the two concepts, providing concrete examples of positive law evolution and legal doctrine creation that reflect the intimate bond between property and personality.

1

Such re-interpretation should be done, moreover, at the level of the EULAs. Agreements established between game developers and players defining the entrance conditions of the latter to the online worlds and the rules governing their behaviour within the corresponding virtual world.

2

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Part II describes the environment where avatars live and grow – virtual worlds, explaining the origins, characteristics and importance of these new digital environments. Within virtual worlds, the paper focuses on the case-study of our paper - the avatars-, examining their concept and implications within such environments. Most importantly, this Part investigates these virtual characters taking into account the peculiar intersection where they are located, that is, at the crossroad between property and personality. By surveying the pertinent legal literature devoted to virtual worlds, the paper acknowledges its dichotomic view over avatars, placing the latter either in a property framework or in a personality rights discourse.

Part III addresses the property paradigm structuring virtual worlds, describing the application of the main theories of property to such environments, and giving particular emphasis to the theory of virtual property authored by Joshua Fairfield. Through the analysis of the latter, the essay underlines the current mismatch between virtual and intellectual property in the regulation of virtual worlds. Still in the same section, the paper proceeds to the analysis of the intellectual property law framework governing these digital platforms, taking a particular look at the turbulent and deeply unbalanced relationship between users and game-developers (namely concerning the controversial question of ownership within virtual worlds). In the examination of IP law in virtual worlds, the essay highlights the predominant utilitarian philosophical underpinning which has guided the general justification and application of IP rights.

Based upon the findings of the previous analysis, Part IV depicts virtual worlds as inherently cooperative and participative; characteristics which render the application of IP law in these digital platforms a rather problematic task. In this context, the essay identifies the two main problems that IP law encounters when regulating virtual worlds: the “dogma” and the “mirror” problems. Within these two problems, the section focuses on the dogma one, describing how IP law is failing to follow its underlying utilitarian principles, creating an unbalanced relationship between game developers and users, as the latter are rejected any property entitlements to their own creations in virtual worlds (namely the avatars).

Confronted with such problem, Part V proceeds to solving it. As such, the essay proposes the representation of virtual worlds through the image and metaphor of jigsaw puzzles, using the latter as an operational criterion through which the “problematic” authorship over avatars can be correctly asserted within a utilitarian framework.

Finally, Part VI goes beyond the puzzle and the utilitarian reasoning behind property rights’, focusing on the second problem that IP is faced with when regulating virtual worlds: the “mirror” problem. Such problem reveals the insufficiency of the utilitarian view over property rights in capturing the full complexity of the avatars, namely the personal attachment and the process of self-identification the user develops towards the latter. As a result, the essay resorts to Radin’s theory of “Property for Personhood” to solve the problem. In this context, the paper examines such theory, listing its problems and merits when applied to virtual worlds and avatars.

By providing solutions to the problems identified (heterogeneity of avatars, the mismatch between virtual and intellectual property, and the market problem), the author argues in favor of the recognition of virtual property rights to users over their avatars, grounded upon Radin’s theory of property for personhood. Furthermore, the theory is deemed to play a fundamental role in deciding specific property rights disputes between game owners and users within the virtual world context.

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I. Property and Personality: An Introduction In philosophy, as in law, there is, and has been, an intimate bond assumed between property and personality. The reason is simply and is grounded in the belief that there is a close link between what one owns and who one is.

The bond between property and personality starts, in fact, in the etymology of the word “property.” In this regard, it is interesting to note that the word property derives from the Latin proprius meaning ‘one’s own,’ or something ‘private or peculiar to oneself’ (Onions & Burchfield, 1966, p. 716). As Gray and Symes (1981) wrote, “semantically, ‘property’ is the condition of being ‘proper’ to (or belonging to) a particular person” (p.7). In this sense, “the etymological root of the term (proprius – one’s own), gives us the sense of the connection between property and what possesses it” (Minogue, 1980, p.11), or in other words, “between the possessing subject and the object or thing possessed by that subject” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.5).

Furthermore, although the concepts of property and person appear to be, at a first glance, antagonistic and perfectly distinct concepts, they are in fact closer to each other than one might think. In this regard, Davies and Naffine (2001), in the book “Are Persons Property – Legal debates about property and personality” question the distinction that modern law makes between person and property, arguing that “in a number of important respects, persons can still be rendered unfree and effectively reduced to something akin to the property of another in certain situations and under certain conditions” (p.2). In identifying ways in which persons continue to assume some of the incidents of property, the authors allude to the status close to that of property that our bodies acquire when we die, to the alienable proprietary “right of publicity” which people in the Unites States have over their “persona” (including their name, their image, and other recognisable aspects of their personality), and to the controversial patenting of biotechnological processes and products based upon genetic material, which “may be characterized as creating property in human life” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.3).

There is thus an inextricable and historical connection between property and personality, as examples from classical theories justifying the very existence of property rights; from the development of certain property rights into personality ones (and vice versa); and from new doctrinal constructions, seem to demonstrate. In what follows, we shall look at each of these three examples.

Regarding the theories of property, namely Locke’s and Hegel’s classical theories of property, it can be identified in each of those an underlying connection between property and personality (although differently framed). As such, in Locke’s Desert-labour theory, the philosopher explicitly conveys the idea that we own ourselves – our persons and our labours.

“Though the Earth and all inferior Creatures be common to all Men, yet every Man has a Property in his own Person. This no Body has any Right to but himself. The Labour of his Body, and the Work of his hands, we may say, are properly his”. (Locke, 1967, pp. 287-288) As Davies and Naffine (2001) synthesize, “Locke famously employed the argument that we all naturally own ourselves as a justification for private appropriation of the commons” (p.4).

Locke sustained that “once we mix our labour (which we own naturally) with an object in the

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commons, we gain property in it. Self-ownership therefore provides a foundation for ownership of the external world” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.4).

Hegel strengthened even further the link between property and personality, arguing in fact that property is “embodied personality” (Hegel, 1952, p.51). Hegel, which property theory is denominated “Personality theory,” “argued that in becoming a person one must put oneself into the external world and then reappropriate the self through the appropriation of objects in the world. Taking the world unto ourselves is our method of completing our subjectivity and individuality, because it involves the purely subjective person externalising their personality and regrasping it in the form of an external object” (Davies & Naffine, 2001 p.4).3 In this sense, “Personality is that which struggles … to claim the external world as its own” (Hegel, 1952, s.39). According to these philosophical constructions, “the idea of the person is in fact deeply imbued with the idea of property. To be a person is to be a proprietor and also to be a property – the property of oneself” (Davies and Naffine, 2001, p.5). From Hegel’s theory, the American scholar Margaret Jane Radin formulated her theory of “Property for Personhood”, departing from the assumption that “almost any theory of private property rights can be referred to some notion of personhood” (Radin, 1993, p.35). By arguing that that property over determined objects is closely related, if not determinant, of individual identity, such theory emphasizes the crucial association between property and personality, conceiving the latter in terms of a relationship with the former.4 Moving from legal theory to positive law, the birth and conceptualization of the right of privacy in the United States and its evolution into the right of publicity constitutes another good example (the second in our list) of the historical and inextricable connection between property and personality.

As such, the original conceptualization of the right to privacy - enshrined in the famous Harvard Law Review article written by Warren and Brandeis - signalized the “shift from the protection of property to the protection of personality in the United States” (Beverley-Smith, Ohly, & Lucas-Schloetter, 2005, p.48). The authors, in such groundbreaking article, argued that the protection afforded by common law copyright in particular circumstances was merely the application of a more general right to privacy (Warren & Brandeis, 1890). Warren and Brandeis developed their argument by distinguishing between the cases based upon the right to prevent publication of manuscripts and works of art – which they conceded as right of property -, and “cases beyond those involving the reproduction of literary and artistic compositions, which called for an alternative, non-proprietary, basis,” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.48) since “the value of the subject matter did not lie in the profits of publication, but in the piece of mind or relied afforded by the ability to prevent any publication at all” (Warren & Brandeis, 1890, p.200). In other words, the common law right allowing the individual to determine the extent and manner in which his thoughts might be communicated – the right “to decide whether what was inherently his own should be given to the public” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.48) -, should not always be based on the narrow grounds of protection of property, but grounded on the more general premise of protection of personality. As Warren and Brandeis (1890) explained:

3 “At the same time, it is important to place Hegel’s account of property in the larger framework of his Philosophy of Right. The acquisition of property for Hegel is only one preliminary ‘moment’ in the constitution of subjectivity” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.4). We shall look into this more carefully in Part VI of this essay.

4 Radin’s “Property for Personhood” theory will be examined in detail in Part VI of this essay.

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“the protection afforded to thoughts, sentiments, and emotions, expressed through the medium of writing or of the arts, so far as it consists in preventing publication, is merely an instance of the enforcement of the more general right of the individual to be left alone … The principle which protects personal writings and all other personal productions, not against theft and physical appropriation, but against publication in any form, is in reality not the principle of private property, but that of inviolate personality” (p.205).

Thus, the right to privacy – envisaged as part of the more general right to the immunity of the person and the right to one’s personality (Warren and Brandeis, 1890) – was born within a general framework of property rights, evolving into a separate right of personality.

Nevertheless, the story does not end here as the evolution of the right to privacy suffered another “twist” that again proved the inextricable connection between property and personality.

In order to explain such new twist, it is important to note that the right to privacy was initially conceived to give legal expression to the rather nebulous principle of ‘inviolate personality’ and secure a person’s right ‘to be left alone’ (Warren & Brandeis, 1890). “The emphasis lay on the non-economic nature of invasion of privacy; the basis of the law’s intervention was the protection of personal dignity rather than the protection of property rights” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.49). However, such intended characterization soon failed, as “although the right of privacy was originally conceived as a right of inviolate personality, it quickly began to develop distinctly ‘proprietary’ attributes” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.52). In fact, “from a relatively early period in its development it became clear that the right of privacy could be used to secure what were essentially economic rather than dignitary interests in preventing unauthorised commercial exploitation of a person’s valuable attributes in name and likeness” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.9).5 “The difficulties in reconciling a right to privacy with a right to prevent the unauthorised commercial exploitation of essentially economic attributes in personality proved to be considerable, and led to the development of a separate right of publicity” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.53). As such, the right of privacy eventually developed into a separate right of publicity, envisaged as a property right. In other words, the right of publicity – which is dominantly conceived as a property right (more precisely, as a fully fledged intellectual property personality right)–, by deriving from the right to privacy, had its roots in a personality right.

To make a long story short (which point is to demonstrate the historical connection between property and personality), the right of privacy (right of personality) departed from property rights and, later on, gave birth to a separate right of publicity, which is conceptualized as a property right.

A third and final example of the inextricable connection between property and personality consists of the conceptualization of copyright in Germany, jurisdiction which has transcended the distinction between non-economic personality rights and property rights.

According to German doctrine, “copyright is a hybrid between a personality and a property right” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.10).6 The well-known metaphor of Eugen Ulmer vividly 5

In this way, “even in the earliest right of privacy cases, the courts were protecting interests of an essentially economic or proprietary nature rather than dignitary interests in inviolate personality” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.52). Examples of such cases are the following ones: Edison v. Edison Polyform Mfg Co. 67 A (1907); Flake v.

Greensboro News Co. 195 SE 55 (1938).

6 Paragraph 11 of the German Copyright Act provides: ‘Copyright shall protect the author with respect to his intellectual and personal relationship with his work, and also with respect to the utilisation of his work.’

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captures such dualistic nature, as the scholar compares copyright to a tree with a single trunk but with two roots – the one being property, the other one being personality – and with branches some of which are nourished only by one root, some by both roots.7 Furthermore, German courts “have also held that personality rights have the dual purpose of protecting both economic and non-economic interests” (Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.10).

Property and Personality are, thus, two concepts intricately intertwined, sharing in many occasions a common historical background, influencing the development and theorization of one another throughout centuries and till our current days. Taking into account such strong connection, this essay puts forward an analysis of the phenomenon of virtual worlds, namely of the “inhabitants” of such territories – the avatars. Such analysis will go beyond the traditional utilitarian perspective of property rights normally pursued in the examinations of these digital environments. In this regard, the article proposes other readings of property law theory that are able to incorporate the neglected personality dimension of the avatars. Departing from the premise that avatars are at the crossroad between property and personality, this article introduces other theoretical ramifications of property law theory, which encompass the personality element, in the legal literature of virtual worlds and avatars. The scope is to capture the full picture of the avatars, focussing on their ambiguous position between property and personality, two concepts – as we have seen – inextricably connected in history, theory and law. But before moving to those theoretical insights, we shall briefly describe the object of our study – the virtual worlds -, explaining what they are and what they represent in the realm of cyberspace. Afterwards, we will move to the central unit of virtual worlds – the avatars – and explicate in more detail the crossroad in which they find themselves in.

II. Virtual Worlds and Avatars Games, as interactive social experiments and forums of human artistic expression, have always accompanied mankind throughout its existence. From story-telling activities and festive rituals of ancient human societies8 to the period of table role-playing games, they have now reached the computer age and the digital era. Through their alliance with modern computer technology, games are now surpassing the element of pure entertainment and play, becoming worldwide forums of communication. These new communicational platforms are enhancing human interaction to unprecedented levels, forming dynamic virtual communities engaged in the establishment of daily social relationships, commercial trading, development of artistic creations, education, political expression and many other activities. All of these social meaningful actions and behaviours are taking place in a new world…in the virtual world…where law is striving to find its place...

7

Ulmer, Urheber- und Verlagsrecht (3rd edn, Berlin 1980), paragraph 18 I 4 (p.116), (cited in Beverley-Smith et al., 2005, p.112) 8 Ung-gi Yoon, referring to the work of Won-bo Kim (Wob-bo Kim, 2004, “Games and mythology”, Sumsori, Issue n.8, Toji Center for Literature/Irum, Winter 2004), indicates that the latter author “in his discussion of the relationship between games and mythology, argues that myths and rituals, the two fundamental elements of ancient human societies, later evolved into story-telling and play. He further argues that today’s computer games are reuniting the function of story-telling with that of play, reviving a primitive and original form of human art where the two were now facets one and the same activity. Computer games, according to him, are a medium combining ritualistic and festive characteristics.” (Yoon, "A quest for the legal identity of MMORPGs", 2005, p.5)

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A. Virtual Worlds and the “new” Cyberspace: Geography and Population Virtual worlds,9 as powerful social platforms of intense human interaction, gather millions of users worldwide, producing massive economies of their own, giving rise to the birth of complex social relationships and the formation of virtual communities. The technological construction of these new digital environments was inspired by previous images and metaphors coming from the cyberpunk literature, such as the “Other plane” of Vernor Vinge (True Names, 1984), the “Mirror worlds” of David Gelernter (Mirror Worlds, 1991) or the “Metaverse” of Neil Stephenson (Snow Crash, 1993). The latter term was coined as a successor to the Internet, constituting the author’s vision of how a virtual reality-based Internet might evolve in the near future. Metaverse was, thus, a virtual world – a three dimensional simulation of reality in cyberspace – where people lived, worked, and socialized.

From literature to reality, virtual worlds can be technically defined as shared, persistent, dynamic and representational computer-generated environments that allow players to interact with each other and engage in a wide range of activities through the control and manipulation of a given character/interface - the avatar. Six main characteristics have been identified in virtual worlds:10 (1) shared space: the world allows many users to participate at once; (2) graphical user interface: the world depicts space visually, ranging in style from 2D "cartoon" imagery to more immersive 3D environments; (3) immediacy: interaction takes place in real time; (4) interactivity: the world allows users to alter, develop, build, or submit customized content; (5) persistence: the world's existence continues regardless of whether individual users are logged in; and (6) socialization/community: the world allows and encourages the formation of in-world social groups like teams, guilds, clubs, cliques, housemates, neighborhoods, etc.

With the increasing popularity and massive use of these 3D digital environments, cyberspace is going through a revolutionary change. Through these virtual worlds, accompanied by the incessant technological development and the uprising of graphics and bandwidth, images and movement are being introduced in cyberspace, complementing its verbal and written layers.

In this sense, virtual worlds constitute a revolution in the way we perceive and act in cyberspace, constituting one of the most significant milestones in the evolution of the Net. Unlike the older text-based cyberspace, made up of pages, letters, text, pictures and links, and when compared with the first generation of World Wide Web technologies, “virtual worlds reintroduce location, place, and space to Internet interactions” (Balkin & Noveck, 2006, p. 12). From flat screen textbased, articulated through hyper links and read and write exchanges, cyberspace is now becoming a true space, regaining a sort of territoriality and geography. “This new technology is spatially oriented and has its own geography of space” (Noveck in Balkin & Noveck, 2006, pp.

266-267). In this way, these new immersive environments allow for the creation of a geographical sense in cyberspace, tricking us into the illusion of being located in a specific space, land, or region.

Such digital environments - interactive 3D platforms - have not only created the new territory of cyberspace, but have also populated it. The new inhabitants of cyberspace are called

9

Also known as Persistent, Synthetic, Simulated or Digital Worlds, Metaverses or MMORPGs - Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games.

10 Book, B. What is a virtual world? Retrieved September 8, 2008 from: http://www.virtualworldsreview.com/.

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avatars and are the digital bodies through which we explore this new geography. Avatars are the characters we control and manipulate in virtual worlds, that is, our interfaces in virtual worlds.

B. Avatars - Concept, Definition and Implications within Virtual Worlds Avatar (avatāra) is a central concept in Hindu mythology, religion, and philosophy.

Literally the term means “a descent” and suggests the idea of a deity coming down from heaven to earth (Jones, 2005). As “the incarnation of a Hindu deity”, avatar designates the manifestation of the god Visnu in corporeal form (Pye, 1994). According to the Hindu religion, a god needs some type of a representational vehicle to embody his holy being when interacting with humans.

In this way, the deity appears to humans via an avatar of either human or animal form (Bailenson & Blascovich, 2004, pp. 64-68). This idea of descent into a different reality and embodiment in a different corporeal form, conveyed by the term avatar, was then used in the late twentieth century by the so-called Cyberpunk science-fiction writers and by scientists studying humancomputer interaction to represent the digital “incarnation” of humans in some kind of virtual reality. In other words, the notion of avatar was adopted to symbolize the representational vehicle used to embody the human being in virtual reality (Bailenson & Blascovich, 2004).

Avatar is, thus, a digital human representation, a projection of one’s self in the virtual world (into an avatar body) and a persistent extension of the correspondent human user, whose behaviours are executed in real-time by a human being.

Through the creation of this digital representative, one can now appear in cyberspace as an embodied character. This new interface surpasses the old interfaces of email addresses or chat usernames. Although still restricted to a screen, keyboard and mouse, in the future the nature of this interface may respond not just to our typing and to our mouse clicks, but perhaps also to our voice,11 our touch,12 and maybe even to our thoughts (Laurel, 1991). The trend is, thus, to have an increasing immersive and seductive cyberspace, in which the person is completely swallowed and absorbed by an irresistible feeling of engagement and immersion. As William J. Mitchell (1996) correctly observed (and anticipated) “cyberspace places will present themselves in increasingly multisensory and engaging ways” (Mitchell, p. 114-115). Avatars play an exceptionally important role in the path towards such full immersion and engagement, as it is through these characters that we make our presence visible in the Internet, exploring the endless potentialities of this new cyberspace. In fact, through the control of avatars, virtual worlds create a more intuitive, natural, spontaneous and richer context for interaction. Such characters, in this regard, represent the user more explicitly and persistently,13 manifesting and transmiting (most of

11

Which is already a reality, as voice-chat systems already feature in many virtual worlds; see Craig, K. (2006).

Voice chat comes to online games.

Retrieved July 8, 2006 from http://www.wired.com/gaming/gamingreviews/news/2006/08/71540 12 In this regard, it is worth mentioning the revolutionary “ambient experiences” (amBX) technology in the virtual world of Second Life, which enables an even more immersive experience. “Driving the next generation of home entertainment, it’s a scripting language, a software engine and architecture”. Through this technology “the virtual world reaches out from your screen; you feel the action: the movement of vehicles, shifts in lighting, rumbling explosions, ricocheting bullets, wind in your face; the mix of ambient lighting, vision, sound and tactile sensations mean the gaming experience will never be the same.” What is ambx? Retrieved September 12, 2008 from http://www.ambx.com/site/about/what 13 “An avatar (or, indeed, any graphical object) can change its state (colour, size, costume, etc.) to reflect the state of mind. Or intentions, or promises, or reputation, or circumstances, or rights and duties (!) of the user.” (Johnson, 2004-2005, p.52).

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the times)14 a sense of humanness. Such a rich and malleable interface, through which we experience cyberspace, allows for a more accurate representation of the mind of the user, conveying, to a certain extent and for the first time, nonverbal information (Yee, Bailenson, Urbanek, Chang, & Merget, 2007), such as intonation, facial expressions, gestures, and body language, as well as actions such as locomotion (moving, walking, flying) and a panoply of different human modes of self-representation.

For the first time, and through visual and graphic representation, people are able to see themselves and the others in cyberspace, which now acquires a human face. With avatars wandering around in virtual worlds, assuming our identities, performing our actions and reflecting our personalities, we are now given the opportunity to jump into the screen in a digital body, participating in cyberspace animated by a feeling of immersion and belonging to this new environment.

C. Avatars at the Crossroad between Property and Personality As we have seen, cyberspace has suffered profound transformations with the rise of virtual worlds. Such new platforms, providing for new representational places and characters, have filled cyberspace with its own geography and population. As real-time social environments, one of the main features (if not the main one) of these virtual worlds is the representation of a real person through a digital self – the avatar. As a matter of fact, millions15 of people around the globe are now dressing up as avatars, invading these new spaces, spending considerable amounts of time16 in this novel territory, and identifying themselves with the avatars they create and control.

In legal terms, one of the most puzzling questions surrounding this renewed cyberspace is the legal status of such digital “alter-egos.” The legal characterization and classification of avatars is ambiguous and unclear, as it is difficult to establish what legal discipline should regulate such “characters.”

The difficulties in finding an appropriate legal framework for these user-controlled entities can be explained by the fact that avatars stand in the intersection between property and personality. From a legal point of view, such peculiar standing is very interesting as it forces us to conceptualize those characters not only as a property item (avatar as the player’s or [gamedeveloper’s] property) but also, and simultaneously, as a reflex of our personality and identity (avatar as the projection of one self in the virtual domain, as part of an individual persona). The legal study of avatars leads us to an inevitable confront between property and personality rights.

Such ambivalent categorization, moreover, has been captured by the scholarly legal literature,

14 Users normally assume an avatar with a human shape, but there is also the possibility of assuming animal, other races and monster forms, among others.

15 To give an example of the astronomical number of users participating in these digital environments, the most popular virtual world at the moment – “World of Warcraft” – has surpassed the 10 million subscribers. Geddes, R. (2008). World of Warcraft Tops 10 Million Subscribers. Retrieved January 22, 2008 from http://pc.ign.com/articles/846/846752p1.html 16 According to a calculated estimate, the average period of time spent by these participants in virtual world is almost twenty-two hours per week. The Daedalus gateway. Retrieved September 12, 2008 from http://www.nickyee.com/daedalus/archives/001365.php

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which, in this matter, has followed either the property or the personality approach, being as creative and imaginative as divided and diverging.17 In this regard, the mainstream literature has in fact encapsulated virtual worlds and avatars in a property rights framework, debating the legal problems that have arisen within those digital environments through the lens of property law. As such, the great majority of the literature devoted to the legal examination of virtual worlds locates avatars in the realm of property, considering them a matter of intellectual property. Taking into account that intellectual property law is the dominant law governing virtual worlds; it comes as no surprise that the legal academic writing follows and comments such predominant proprietary focus.18 In such context, scholars have argued that virtual world users have real property interests in virtual objects (Lastowka & Hunter, 2004)),19 while others have claimed that the imbalance between proprietors and participants within virtual worlds can be solved by the attribution of property rights to the latter, associating democracy with property rights (Jankowich, 2005). Furthermore, a theory of virtual property, following the Benthamite utilitarianism and welfare economics,20 has been put forward, defining virtual property as a concept closer to land or chattel than to intangible property (Fairfield).21 Finally, many other scholars have discussed the challenges, problems or insufficiencies of copyright law applied to virtual worlds – enshrined in the so-called EULAs (Garlick, 2005; Meehan, 2006). Such academics have presented a number of important arguments favouring a more balanced articulation between the rights of game owners and users.

Nevertheless, such academic contributions do not abandon the property paradigm, carrying their analysis within a virtual property rights framework.

On the other side of the coin, nevertheless, there is a minority view in the virtual worlds legal literature that removes the avatars from the property habitat, placing them in the personality shelf. The most interesting point in this particular literature is the slight tendency to move the analysis of avatars towards a discourse of personality rights (droits de personalité), moving away from the property sphere. Thus, and even if the question of the legal treatment of avatars (and other virtual items) has been predominantly framed in terms of property rights and contract law, part of the virtual worlds juridical literature is proposing alternative legal frameworks to this question, introducing notions of non-property rights and proposing an extension of a wider set of possible rights to virtual spaces. This new way of perceiving the dynamics of virtual worlds aims 17

It is important to note that these two approaches – the property and personality – are not necessarily antagonistic within virtual worlds and can, in fact, be reconciled inside these digital environments. Lastowka and Hunter (2004) prove this point, as they both argue in favour of property interests in virtual objects without undermining the possibility (although articulated in a rather vaguely fashion) of endorsing avatars with enforceable legal and moral rights, characterising the latter as “persistent extension of their human users.” Such compatibility between the property and the personality approaches requires, then, that one distinguishes between avatars and other virtual items.

18 Furthermore, also the jurisprudence has been following the “property” approach, as the current case law reinforces the proprietary view over avatars. As an example, the case of Marvel Comics v. NCSoft was based and decided upon the assumption that the avatars created through the avatar creation engine did implicate intellectual property rights and, in that way, infringed marvel trademark rights.

19 Nevertheless, those very same scholars have also alluded, for the first time, to non-property rights of avatars (p.97).

20 “Virtual property ought to be protected because it represents the best way of splitting up use rights so as to cause people to use it efficiently” (Fairfield, 2005, p.1094).

21 Fairfield’s theory of virtual property will be analysed in more detail in Part III of this essay. In the same direction, Schwarz and Bullis (2005) argue that the boundary between intellectual and physical property should fall at the point where rivalrous consumption begins.

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at resisting the increasing commodification of these online environments,22 excluding the property discourse and advancing with the attribution of legal personhood and human rights (non-property ones) to avatars.23 In accordance with this “movement”, the degree of interaction and socialization deriving from the user-controlled mediated relationships established in virtual communities will soon extrapolate from the traditional property law discourse.

In this line of thought, Lastowka and Hunter (2004) unveiled the curtain on the revolutionary question of avatar’s own rights, discussing whether these characters could have enforceable legal and moral rights. The authors investigated the complex issue of whether the close interrelationship of avatars and their controllers could give place to new and enforceable rights, advancing the possibility that the avatar (which they called “cyborg”) could indeed possess rights distinct in nature from the rights of the human controller. In this sense, they argued that as new residents bring with them expectations of property rights, they bring with them expectations of other human and constitutional rights as well (Lastowka & Hunter, 2004).24 Ren Reynolds has gone further on this issue, advocating a pressing need to examine the expansion of human rights to avatars. In several articles (Reynolds, 2002, 2003a), the author considers property law as an inappropriate25 approach to handle the legal questions concerning avatars and virtual items. The author undertakes an analysis of current IP law applied to virtual items and avatars, concluding that these characters are not subject to property rights and are thus not owned by either the game owner or any individual player.26 At the end, although without developing this idea, Reynolds (2003a) proposes a non-property sui generis right in avatars based on Hegelian concepts of the relationship between property and autonomy.

The Honourable Judge Ung-gi Yoon also follows this approach, supporting the idea that avatars should not be seen as empty shells, but as entities to which the status of a dynamic and live persona should be given. The author advocates the attribution to avatars of in-game rights similar to constitutional rights and personal rights, including privacy rights,27 the right of publicity and even citizenship28 (which would have to be accompanied by a wholesale review of disciplinary actions currently in use, such as suspension and deletion of avatars – Yoon, 2005).

Furthermore, Ung-gi Yoon elaborates this idea on his article about avatars (2006), defending a very interesting position of naming the personal right attached to avatars with the term of "persona":

22

The literature, in this regard, has identified an overwhelming commodization of almost all aspects of the Internet, including tokens of identity such as email address and avatars.

23 Raph Koster, a game designer and virtual world theorist, was one of the first to launch the notion of avatar rights: Declaration of the Rights of Avatars, available at http://www.raphkoster.com/gaming/playerrights.shtml 24 Nevertheless, Lastowka and Hunter did not arrive at any definite conclusions on this issue, suggesting that the issue of avatar rights would be one of timing.

25 For detailed arguments against property law application, namely against player’s and game developer’s ownership of avatars and virtual items in virtual works, see in particular Reynolds (2003b).

26 For more detailed arguments on the failed attempt of applying copyright in the case of avatars, see Stephens (2002). For an opposing view, see Miller (2003), demonstrating the ways in which the actions and characters of participants and other virtual items fit into copyright law.

27 The author announces in his article that he is currently studying the possibility of approaching the question of MMO avatars from the perspective of information privacy law rather than from intellectual property law.

28 Faltin Karlsen, “Media complexity and diversity of use: thoughts on a taxonomy of users of multiuser online games”, quoted in Ung-gi Yoon (2005).

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“Awaring [sic] that the existing views regarding avatars as characters in novel, animated film or computer-role-playing-games or as personal information like that of identities had some limitation, I carved out the players' personal right that welded on the avatar with the chisel named of 'persona' in Carl G. Jung's psychology and Friedrich W. Nietzsche's philosophy”29 (Yoon, Ung-gi, personal communication, May 9, 2007).

Beth Simone Noveck (2006) shares this “human” dimension attributed to avatars, considering them as persona and citizen – a legal and moral personage distinct from the private individual – who acts in a social capacity. The author conceives avatars as social personalities and citizens of the online world, imbued with rights and responsibilities (in Balkin & Noveck, 2006).

This paper departs from the intersection point between property and personality rights where avatars are located, defining and recognizing the latter in this dualistic conception.

Avatars are thus conceived not only as property items, but also as a reflex of our persona and persistent extension of the human users (Lastowka & Hunter, 2004). Nevertheless, the paper does not fall into the “personality” box to examine this double dimension of avatars, deciding instead to frame its analysis within the context of property law. However, and contrarily to the “property” literature briefly surveyed (dominantly utilitarian), this essay pursues other interpretations and theories of property, namely the ones that recognize the importance of the personality element in property. In this way, the paper attempts to capture the full complexity of avatars, contemplating not only the proprietary focus but also the personality dimension involved in such characters. In this way, we believe that there is still room of manoeuvre in property law to cover the avatars. Nonetheless, to that effect, one should resort to a non-utilitarian view of the issue and endorse a personality or a “property for personhood” theorization.30 Before shifting our analysis to these “new” property-personality theoretical interpretations, we shall, firstly, analyse how the classical main theories of property have been applied to virtual worlds (in order to sustain the grant of real-world property expectations in virtual property); secondly, describe the theorization of virtual property that has been formulated and applied to virtual worlds (Fairfied’s theory of virtual property), and through which we will find out a current mismatch between virtual and intellectual property.

III. Virtual Worlds and Theories of Property With the new “geography” of cyberspace introduced by virtual worlds, a new conceptualization of property has been formulated – the so-called “synthetic” or “virtual property”, a foundational element in the functioning of virtual worlds but a problematic concept 29

Extract of the English abstract of Ung-gi Yoon’s article on avatars given to the author in an email exchange. I would like to thank the Honourable Judge for his kind contribution to my research.

30 In this regard, and as preliminary note, it is important to acknowledge that the claims portrayed in this essay can only be verified under determined conditions and specific circumstances. In this sense, only avatars that can, in fact, be characterized as persistent extension of the human users will lend themselves to this property for personhood theoretical treatment. This means that a case-by-case approach should be followed in this respect, in order to distinguish the avatars that can reclaim such specific hybrid proprietary-personality understanding. This point will be better explained at a later stage of the article.

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deeply analysed in the legal literature of virtual worlds (Jankowich, 2005; Lastowka & Hunter, 2004; Fairfield, 2005; Meehan, 2006, among others). Such property, although intangible, evanescent and untouchable, floating as 0s and 1s in computer servers and databases, creates a feeling of real ownership and property expectation in the minds of the players, who invest large sums of money in its acquisition, either in the form of virtual castles, islands or clothing. This property can, thus, be traded, bought and sold for real money (or for virtual currency which can then be exchanged for real money, as many virtual currencies have established their own exchange rate with real currency) in real-world auction sites31 or within the virtual world itself.32 Such property is thus responsible for the development of massive virtual parallel economies, which lend themselves to economical analyses just like real world national economies. To give an example, Castronova (2001) has analysed Norrath, the virtual world in Everquest, finding some remarkable economic results: the effectively hourly wage was US$3.42 per hour, which was significantly higher than hourly wage of workers in India or China; and the economy of Norrath as a whole was significantly larger than Bulgaria (Castronova, 2001).

Taking into account the relevance and the real-world implications of such particular form of property -, several legal scholars have analysed the main theories of property, applying their philosophical justifications and reasoning to virtual property. Lastowka and Hunter (2004), in their article “The laws of the virtual worlds”, provide a framework for understanding the issue of property in virtual worlds, demonstrating that virtual objects are indistinguishable from other legally recognized property interests. The authors apply the three main normative theories of property - Bentham’s Utilitarian, the Lockean’s Labour-Desert and the Hegelian Personality theories - to the case of virtual property, finding in all of them plausible normative justifications to recognize property interests in virtual items. At the end of their analysis, the authors reach the conclusion that there are nor descriptive neither normative objections to granting property interests in virtual assets.33 In fact, narrowing down the analysis to the case of the avatars and taking a brief look at the three main theories of property, one realises that they can all theoretically be applied to avatars.

Following Bentham’s utilitarian theory of property, which foundational principle seeks the greatest good for the greatest number, “the grant of property rights in an object will increase the production of such objects” (Lastowka & Hunter, 2004, p. 59). According to the logic of such theory, people will only tend to create and produce certain things if they are given property rights to use those very same things. Such a thesis can also be applied to avatars if one assumes that people will feel more compelled to create and produce their own digital alter-egos if they can assert some kind of ownership over them.

31

Such as general auction sites – eBay, Yahoo – or auction sites entirely devoted to virtual property, such as www.playerauctions.com and www.mysupersales.com .

32 In this regard, Sony’s online virtual world EverQuest II launched in 2005 its own auction service – Station Exchange – providing players a secure method of buying and selling the right to use in game coin, items and characters, available at http://stationexchange.station.sony.com/ 33 More recently, Reuveni (2007) analyzed those three main property theories within the framework of intellectual property rights, reaching the conclusion that all three support the granting of copyright to players who create artistic works in virtual spaces (p.276).

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Locke’s property theory, also called a theory of desert-from-labour theory, that states that the person who expended labour to render the “thing in nature” into valuable form deserves to reap the value of it (Lastowka & Hunter, 2004, p. 61-62),34 can also fit in the case of avatars. In this sense, such a theory can also explain and justify player’s ownership over avatars, as these are built and constructed by players, not existing before. Players devote a great amount of time, labour and effort to create and develop their avatars, deserving – according to Locke’s theory – to be granted with property rights over such laborious process and creation.

According to the Hegelian theory, property is conceived as an extension of personality, and thus as a necessary antecedent to human freedom.35 In the words of Thomas Grey (1980), following Hegel’s reasoning, “[o]wnership expanded the natural sphere of freedom for the individual beyond his body to part of the material world.” The emphasis, on the one hand, on the intimate relationship between property and the development of one’s personality and, on the other, the characterization of the avatar as the persistent extension of the human user makes Hegel’s Personality theory particularly appealing and suitable for our case-study: the avatars. In this regard, the configuration of these virtual alter-egos seems to match perfectly the vision of property as an extension or embodiment of the user’s personality. Within the legal analysis of avatars to which this article is devoted, and among the three property theories previously analysed, the personality theory is the one clearly standing out as it encompasses both property and personality dimensions in the figure of the avatar. As apparently tailor-made to fit the case of user-controlled characters, Hegel’s personality theory, and namely the theory of Margaret Jane Radin – “Property for Personhood”, will be further detailed in Part VI. A. Theory of Virtual Property In studying the emergence and relevance of this particular kind of property in virtual worlds, Fairfield (2005) has coined such emerging property form with the term “virtual property”, defining it as computer code designed to act like real world property36 and setting forth a correspondent theory – the theory of virtual property. Within such theoretical construction, virtual property is defined as a particular kind of code (which encompasses not only virtual world items, but also many of the most important online resources, such as domain names, URLs [uniform resource locators], websites and email accounts)37 emulating real and tangible objects, and replicating the “physical” qualities of the latter (Fairfield, 2005). Such virtual items, although intangible, are programmed to act as if they were tangible. In this sense, they share three legally relevant characteristics with real world property: they are “rivalrous” (one person’s use of the code prevents another person from using it),38 “persistent” (unlike the software on your computer, they do not go away when you turn the computer off), and

34 See also Munzer (1990), explaining Locke in terms of desert from labor; Radin (1993, pp. 105-06), calling the theory the “Lockean labor-desert theory”).

35 Lastowka and Hunter (2004), (citing Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Hegel’s Philosophy of Right (T.M. Knox trans., Oxford Univ. Press 1967) (1821).

36 Such code, moreover and according to Fairfield (2005), should be regulated and protected like real world property.

37 And, of course, avatars.

38 In this sense, virtual property operates as the opposite of intellectual property, which protects the creative interest in non-rivalrous resources (Fairfield, 2005).

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“interconnected” (other people can interact with them).39 Virtual property is thus defined as an emerging property form “that is not intellectual property, but that more efficiently governs rivalrous, persistent, and interconnected online resources” (Fairfield, 2005, p.1048).

In this context, property rights, taken in its broad legal sense40 and traditionally divided into two categories (chattel or real property rights - often simply called “property interests”-, and intellectual property interests)41 seem to witness the emergence of a third category: virtual property, that is, intangible property designed to act as tangible. Nevertheless, and interestingly enough, the co-existence of the virtual and intellectual categories of property is not necessarily problematic. In this sense, and as Fairfield (2005) explains, “recognition of virtual property rights does not mean the elimination of intellectual property” (p.1097), as the “ownership of a thing is always separate from ownership of the intellectual property embedded in a thing” (p.1097).42 Such distinction impedes, for example, the owner of virtual property to own the right to copy it. Bearing in mind such separation, “intellectual property need not conflict with virtual property. In fact, the two, if well-balanced, will complement each other” (Fairfield, 2005, p.1097).

In spite of all this, such peaceful co-existence does not undermine the problem of having virtual property governed through the law of intellectual property. In this regard, and as a result, “holders of intellectual property rights have been systematically eliminating emerging virtual property rights by the use of contracts called End User License Agreements (“EULAs”) (Fairfield, 2006, p.1050).

B. The Mismatch between Virtual and Intellectual Property Having briefly described the dominant theories of property in the “real” world and their application to virtual worlds (utilitarian, desert-from-labour and personality theories), and having analysed the recent theorization of virtual property, we reach the conclusion that virtual property is not only undistinguishable from other legally recognized property interests (as the three main normative theories of property seem to recognize), but is also – as the theory of virtual property argues - much similar to chattel or real property than intellectual property. At this point, we arrive at a very important preliminary conclusion: although avatars, as items of virtual property, present the qualities and features of tangible (land or chattel) property, they are, nevertheless, governed through property laws meant to regulate intangible objects, that is, intellectual property

39

Fairfield (2005) argues that the naturally layered nature of the internet is leading to overlapping rights of exclusion that cause underuse of internet resources, demonstrating that the common law of property can act to limit the costs of this internet anticommons.

40 “A property right enables the proprietor to exercise control over a thing, the object of property, against the rest of the world” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.6).

41 As Richard Posner (2000) has pointed out: intellectual property is characterized by high fixed costs relative to marginal costs. It is often very expensive to create, but once it is created the cost of making additional copies is low, dramatically so in the case of software, where it is only a slight overstatement to speak of marginal cost as zero. On the contrary, “real” property interests have roughly equal fixed and marginal costs (in this sense it is as expensive to build a second house as to build a first one).

42 As Fairfield (2005) illustrates, “ownership of a book is not ownership of the intellectual property of the novel that the author wrote. The book purchaser owns the physical book, nothing more. Ownership of a CD is not ownership of the intellectual property in the music. The music purchaser owns that copy of the music, nothing more” (p.1097).

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law. There is thus a mismatch between what virtual property really is (tangible property) and how it is actually being regulated (intangible property).

Bearing in mind such property mismatch, the next section proceeds to describing the current legal framework through which virtual worlds and avatars are being regulated – the IP law framework. Inspired by the overarching question of ownership over such environments, we will take an attentive look at the turbulent relationship between game developers and users (in which both claim ownership) and to the particular nature of virtual worlds as “ongoing collective works.” Those two features, which are intimately intertwined, combined with the intrinsic structural difference between virtual property and intellectual property pose serious problems and difficulties to the application of IP law to virtual worlds and, in particular, to the figure of avatar.

C. Intellectual Property Law and Avatars Intellectual property Law has undoubtedly been the main legal tool used to govern and regulate avatars. There are many reasons behind this choice. Firstly, IP law is the primary area of law dealing with online games, category in which virtual worlds are included and where avatars “inhabit”. Online games are typically protected by copyright, area of law which occupies a large and important place within broader intellectual property law. As such, and in terms of copyright, electronic games are protected by copyright as “audiovisual works”.43 44 In this regard, the U.S. Copyright Act defines an audiovisual work as a series of related images, together with accompanying sounds, intrinsically to be shown by the use of machines or devices, regardless of the nature of the material objects in which the works are embodied.45 Furthermore, Reuveni (2007) considers that virtual worlds exhibit the creativity, originality, fixation and tangibility requirements of copyright law, qualifying them for copyright protection as audiovisual works.

Such protection encompasses the game art46 and the game story.47 Moreover, electronic games are registered with the U.S. Copyright Office.48 Secondly, the EULAs, the agreements established between game developers and players defining the entrance conditions of the latter to the online worlds and the rules governing their behaviour within the corresponding virtual world, often display many legal notions pertaining to intellectual property law. Terms such as patents, trademark and copyright are easily found in the drafting of those agreements. The “property legal terminology” used in EULAs to characterize and classify game characters and items is, thus, manifest and evident. Furthermore, as we can deduct from the language used in the EULAs and its “imperialistic” statements of control, copyright law is commonly (if not abusively) used by game developers in the EULAs to retain complete and absolute ownership over the characters, game-items and creative works produced and developed within virtual worlds.

43

Lewis Galoob Toys, Inc. v. Nintendo of Am., Inc., 964 F.2d 965, 967 (9th Cir. 1992).

Copyrightable works of authorship include literary, musical, dramatic, choreographic, pictorial, audio, audiovisual, and architectural works, 17 U.S.C. paragraphs 102 (a) (1)-(8) 2000. Freedman (2005), in his article “Machinima and copyright law” suggests, instead, the categorization of virtual worlds as “architectural worlds”, another type of “works” protected by copyright.

45 17 U.S.C. paragraph 101.

46 Micro Star v. FormGen Inc., 154 F.3d 1107, 1110 (9th Cir. 1998).

47 Ibid, p. 1112.

48 World of Warcraft, for example, was registered in November 24, 2004, as a videogame, in the U.S. Copyright Office (http://www.copyright.gov/) by Blizzard Entertainment.

44

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Moreover, IP law arguments are often used by game developers to assert their rights over in-game property and to preclude certain actions undertaken by players.49 In this way, game owners resort to copyright law as their legal basis to prohibit sales of characters or other virtual items which take place against the virtual world’s own rules and policy.50 51 In the view of the game owners, the auction of characters and items infringe their established copyright. In this matter, “one of copyright’s exclusive rights - the right to prepare derivative works”52 – is frequently cited by game providers as the legal basis supporting their actions to shut down outof-game trading or out-of-game creative expression” (Garlick, 2005, p. 436). In order to assert their rights, companies often proceed to erasing player accounts or to work with auction websites in order to remove in-game items for sale. In addition, and on the other side of the dispute, players often assume that avatars are potential items of property and specifically intellectual property. As such, IP law figures as the law most often applied in disputes over these characters.

Finally, the fact that virtual worlds are built upon the idea of property constitutes a further argument for proposing IP law as the departure point for the analysis of virtual worlds and avatars. In this sense, virtual worlds are by rule based on a “property paradigm” (Lastowka & Hunter, 2004), having their structure and foundations settled upon a logic of property. As commented by Lastowka and Hunter (2004), “Central to the operation of most modern virtual worlds is a property system, with all of the familiar real world features of exclusive ownership, persistence of rights, transfer under conditions of agreement and duress, and a currency system to support trade (p.30) … virtual worlds all cleave to familiar real world expectations of property systems. This may be as a consequence of resource scarcity. No modern virtual world allows for unlimited resource creation, so the laws of economics operate much as they do in the real world”. (p.33) Further to being the main instrument governing and regulating virtual worlds, it is important to note that the application of IP law in this domain (and in general) has been grounded upon utilitarian principles and objectives. In this context, and taking into account that the Anglo-American copyright system is based is underpinned by utilitarian considerations, one should acknowledge that utilitarianism – as the most popular among the theories of IP – is fundamentally concerned, when shaping property rights, with the maximization of net social welfare. The pursuit of that end, in the context of intellectual property law, “requires lawmakers to strike a balance between, on one hand, the power of exclusive rights to stimulate the creation of inventions and works of art and, on the other, the partially offsetting tendency of such rights to curtail widespread public enjoyment of those creations” (Fisher in Munzer, 2001, p.169)

49

See, among others, MDY Industries, LLC v. Blizzard Entertainment, Inc., No.CV-06-2555-PHX-DGC, 2008 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 53988 at *5-6 (D. Ariz. 14 July 2008).

50 The practice of sales of game items through “out-of-the-game procedures” is described by the term “farming.”

51 Examples of out-of-game sales of in-game items can be found in popular auction websites, such as eBay or Yahoo, which normally display in their catalogues a list of avatars and other in-game objects. The price of such items depends on the amount of time, effort and skill that the seller took to develop, create or acquire them through ordinary game play. For two illustrative examples of out-of-game auctioning of in-game items coming close to judicial scrutiny, see Garlick (2005), pp. 428-430.

52 The 1976 Copyright Act, 106(2)

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D. The Question of Ownership within Virtual Worlds and the Turbulent Relationship between Game-Developers and Users The question of who owns the virtual world has been without doubt the main one structuring the legal debate on this area. This question, which has been repeatedly approached through the parameters of ownership,53 has been inflaming the legal minds, instigating different legal theories and applications to these new artificial online environments. The conflict over the ownership of virtual worlds has opposed two main actors - game developers and users.54 Game developers, on the one hand, as the creators and designers of these worlds, feel entitled to assert their ownership over what they created.55 The large amount of money invested in the construction and maintenance of these worlds, carried out by big media and audiovisual companies driven by a business-profit orientation, propels that feeling of ownership. On the other hand, users are not mere passive consumers of a finished product. Virtual worlds, as particular types of online games, introduce a new genre of experience where consumers buy the entertainment to produce their own entertainment (Garlick, 2005, p. 423). This hybrid role of a consumer/ producer has been described as that of a “conducer” (Garlick, 2005). As such, users participate in the construction and development of these worlds, raising buildings, creating objects and elaborating their avatars - reasons for which they also believe to have a word in the ownership and right of property over virtual characters and items.

The liaison between game developers and users is simultaneously beneficial and detrimental to both actors, resembling, in this sense, a sort of “love and hate” relationship.56 In any case, the relationship between them is structurally uneven and unbalanced, pending clearly in favour of the game companies. The position of superiority of game owners towards users and the lack of autonomy of the latter regarding the former has been well documented in the literature. In fact, to illustrate the disequilibrium of powers and rights between these two actors within virtual worlds, scholars have referred to a current default rule of nearly absolute wizardocracy (Lastowka & Hunter, 2005) to dictatorships of the most absolute kind (Lastowka & Hunter, 2003) making comparisons with science-fiction artificial environment Hollywood

53

Property disputes have always been present in the history of virtual worlds, making their mark already in the first versions of virtual worlds – the text-based environments MUDs and MOOs, as Lastowka and Hunter (2004) explain: “…even within the community-minded LambdaMOO, the concepts of ‘property’ and ‘ownership’ in virtual assets surfaced almost immediately. For instance, in the earliest stages of LambdaMOO, a dispute arose over who owned the air-space over privately-owned territories, which became an important issue for the navigation of aircraft” (p.

35).

54 The terminology regarding these actors has been very rich and diversified. Game Companies have also been called Game owners, Game Designers and Platform Owners, Game Operators, Game Developers, Game DevelopersPublishers, Game providers, Proprietors, “gods” and “wizards”; as for Users, the terms Players, MMORPG players, Participants and Gamers have also been used; whereas for Avatars, the expressions Player-characters, Characters, Cyborgs and Proxies can also be found in the literature. For a criticism to the widespread use of terms in this field, see Jankowich (2005).

55 In fact, and as we have seen, the EULAs confirm that very same reasoning.

56 Jankowich (2005) employs a biological metaphor to illustrate such relationship: “the proper way to view the new interaction between proprietors and property-owning participants, whose characters inhabit the proprietors’ virtual worlds, is a mutualistic symbiosis. In biology, a mutualistic symbiotic relationship exists where two organisms engage in a mutually beneficial relationship (p. 209) … Characters are created to exist in the virtual spaces and proprietors are dependent on character presence and sociability for the success of their worlds” (p. 210).

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movies (Jankowich, 2005),57 or applying the classical medieval metaphor of landlords and serfs (Jankowich, 2005).58 This fundamental power imbalance (Jankowich, 2005) existing in virtual worlds is explained by the fact that game developers are the gate keepers of technology and law concerning virtual worlds. In this sense, game owners are, on the one hand, the code-makers, that is, the ones creating and operating the software through which they build, design and maintain their worlds. Such technological privilege permits gamers to alter all the software instructions and rules that compose every aspect of the virtual worlds, giving them the ability to unilaterally change, delete, produce and create any element pertaining to these computer-animated environments. Through code, game producers become genuine “puppet-masters”, keeping absolute control over what happens in the puppet-theatre - the virtual worlds (Lastowka & Hunter, 2003).59 In fact, taking into account Lessig’s golden rule that code acts in cyberspace as a true regulator - as law -, (Lessig, 1999) game developers “provide the law, courts, constitution, and the very physics of existence” (Lastowka & Hunter, 2003, p.9) in these interactive spaces, retaining the possibility to dictate player’s behaviour within their worlds.

Furthermore, and amounting to the technological guardianship and supervision, game producers are also “law-makers”, retaining a legal monopoly in the regulation of virtual worlds by means of contractual law, that is, by unilaterally drafting and imposing upon players the EndUser License Agreements (EULAs).60 The EULAs, as agreements through which players are granted access to virtual worlds, complement the code, establishing a set of terms and conditions for playing the game that cannot be effectively controlled through the software implemented in the game. A classic example of such rules is the assertion of property rights – namely copyrights - over all the content of virtual worlds in favour of game developers. Taking into account such non-equal footing state of affairs, users are, thus, subject to arbitrary and unilateral decisionmaking by gamers, who – through code and authoritarian EULAs - are that world’s de facto authority (Lastowka & Hunter, 2003).61

57

“The Matrix and similar movies explore highly sophisticated technology-generated artificial environments where individual autonomy turns out to be far more limited than the level of technology would suggest.” (Jankowich, 2005, p. 174) 58 “A medieval metaphor, however, is even more appropriate for virtual worlds populated by property-less participants. In such worlds, participants pay tribute money to their game proprietor overlords to prevent being killed (account termination), and anything they produce (their intellectual property) belongs to their lord except what participant serfs are allowed to retain for support.” (Jankowich, 2005, p. 203) 59 In this sense, Lastowka and Hunter (2003): “virtual worlds are representational creations of constructed humanwritten code that designers can manipulate with uncommon precision” (¶ 10) 60 The client software and the use of the game are licensed to the player through these EULAs. Such agreements are normally displayed in the screen of a computer after the software of the game has been installed, requiring the player to tick on the “I agree” button in order to start playing. This license can, nevertheless, be exhibit in other forms, such as in printed form with the software package or displayed on the game developers website – or any combination thereof. Such agreements also go by the name of “shrinkwrap” or “clickwrap” agreements. Julian Dibbell suggests that “EULAs are perhaps better understood as a working embodiment of the social contract idealized by Rousseau, Locke, and other theorists of democracy” (Dibbell, 2006).

61 The description and critical assessment of the ideas and solutions proposed by the scholarly legal literature to appease the tumultuous relationship between game developers and players goes beyond the scope of this article. For the suggestion that virtual worlds should be considered as associations or corporations, proposing a new model of agreement, conceived along the lines of corporate law, see Ung-gi Yoon (2005), David Johnson (2004-2005) and Edward Castronova (2005). Such “corporation approach” envisages the establishment of a common entity formed by both gamers and players, which would balance the set of rights and duties between these two actors, allowing for the

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IV. Special Nature of Virtual Worlds and the difficulties in applying IP Law to such environments Virtual worlds, as important steps in the age of personal and participatory media,62 63 in which people no longer only consume but also actively participate in the media, challenge the traditional boundary author / consumer in which IP law is settled upon. The fact that virtual worlds take on board permanent contributions of users to the design and development of their environments (in a sort of double or co-authorship with the players) renders the task of finding an appropriate legal framework under the auspices of IP Law a very problematic and intricate one. The conflict between game developers and users, described above, reflects the special nature of virtual worlds, as works of collaborative authorship between the owners and the participants. While the owners set the stage of the world, the users populate and develop it, adding up to the initial scenery their own artistic creations. As such, users take an active, entrepreneurial and creative role in virtual worlds, being responsible for the creation of their avatars and virtual objects, and for the sub sequential development of those platforms. In this particular feature lies the special nature of these environments, seen by many scholars as ongoing collective projects (Balkin, 2004), cooperative production processes (Humphrey, 2004) and works in progress, rather than finished products ready for consumption (Yoon, 2005).64 The cooperative nature of virtual worlds explains, thus, the difficulties behind the application of copyright law to these environments. The clear cut attribution of authorship to a given creation entailed by copyright does not fit well in the case of virtual worlds. The tendency of Copyright doctrine to presuppose that a creative work has a singular author,65 and that the product of that singular author remains static once fixed,66 clearly contradicts the collaborative authorship and evolving nature of virtual worlds. In other words, “the binary nature of copyright, latter to participate on an equal-footing basis with the former in the governance of the virtual world. For an architecture of freedoms with constitutional significance in virtual worlds (freedom of play, freedom to design, and freedom to design together), as a way to harmonize the relationship between game developers and players, see Balkin (2005). The “constitutional approach” intends to resolve the imbalance of powers and rights that currently characterizes the relationship between developers and players through the attribution and protection of constitutional freedoms to those actors. Such approach is then complemented with models of regulation (the company town model of regulation and the place of public accommodation model), which, taking into account those very same freedoms, would ensure the protection of player’s interests in circumstances where their rights could be undermined by the game producers.

62 Among the audience. A survey of new media, The Economist, April 2006. Retrieved September 12, 2008 from http://www.economist.com/surveys/displaystory.cfm?story_id=6794156 63 This participatory age is also reflected in other popular phenomenon present in the net, such as “MySpace” and “YouTube”, among others, which also give a predominant role to the user.

64 Constance Steinkuehler (2006), in her essay “The mangle of play”, discusses, in the context of Lineage, the ways in which the game that is played by the participants is not the game that designers originally had in mind, but rather one that is the outcome of an interactively stabilized “mangle of practice” of designers, players, in-game currency farmers, and broader social norms.

65 See Aalmuhammed v. Lee, 202 F.3d 1227, 1233 (9th Cir. 2000) (defining an author as “the person to whom the work owes its origin and who superintended the whole work, the ‘master mind’” (quoting Burrow-Giles Lithographic Co. v. Sarony, 111 U.S. 53, 61 (1884)); Lindsay v. R.M.S. Titanic, 52 U.S.P.Q.2d 1609, 1613 (S.D.N.Y. 1999) (“An individual claiming to be an author for copyright purposes must show ‘the existence of those facts of originality, of intellectual production, of thought, and conception.”’ (quoting Burrow-Giles, 111 U.S. at 58)); See also Chon (1996), (discussing and challenging the notion that a particular creative work has one particular author).

66 See Burk (2000). See also 17 U.S.C. paragraph 101 (2000) (defining fixation); id. paragraph 103 (discussing derivative works); Mai Sys. Corp. v. Peak Computer, Inc., 991 F.2d 511, 516–18 (9th Cir. 1993) (discussing fixation).

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which is dependent on a division between either author and reader or artist and copier, fails to anticipate the collaborative creation occurring in virtual space” (Reuveni, 2007, p. 272).

One could then resort to some types of collaborative authorship foreseen in the U.S. Copyright Act, such as joint-works, works made for hire, collective works and compilations.

However, these forms of collaborative works also fail to capture the particular nature of virtual worlds. These categories rely on the legal fiction of a single author in the context of collaborative authorship and treat the final work as if it were the work of a single guiding genius.67 These categories also render player alterations to virtual environments “at best unrecognized, and at worst illegal” under copyright law (Burk, 2000, p.23) – referring to the manipulation of digital texts. The intentionality of authors required under copyright law to qualify as a “joint-work”68 or the requisite of an employment relationship for a “work made for hire”69 are, for example, clearly missing in the relationship between game developers and players within virtual worlds.

The “test-case” most often analysed in the literature to prove the inadequacy of IP law in protecting in-game creative works produced within virtual worlds has been the sale of virtual items in real markets,70 namely avatars. These sales escape the rules and procedures stipulated by the game companies, taking place outside the boundaries of virtual worlds,71 namely in auction sites such as eBay or Yahoo. Users simply advertise the virtual products that they have acquired or developed in the lists of those sites (the more powerful an avatar72 is or the more rare a given item is, the higher their bidding price in the auction will be) and, having found a buyer and received the money through bank transfer, the seller then transmits to the buyer the details of his account in the game, giving him the access and control of the avatar or, in case of any other virtual item, arranges a meeting of avatars with the buyer in the virtual world to conclude the transfer. This process, known as “gold farming”, exposes the vulnerabilities of copyright law in regulating virtual worlds. Such sales, in fact, illustrate the general failure of intellectual property law to protect digital content creators and their works (Stephens, 2002). The shortcomings of copyright law in this field leave “… the practice of avatar sales in a legal netherworld” (Reynolds, 2003a, p. 11), as neither the users have the right to sell avatars as abstract items of property and neither the game developers have the right to stop or regulate the trade (Reynolds, 2003a, p.11).

A. The Two Problems of IP law The collaborative nature of virtual worlds, the inefficiency of copyright, and the characterization of avatars as persistent extension of the users’ personality expose, thus, the two 67

See Burk (2000), (discussing the difficulty in applying traditional copyright law to collaborative digital works of authorship).

68 A “joint work” is a work prepared by two or more authors with the intention that their contributions be merged into inseparable or interdependent parts of a unitary whole. 17 U.S.C. paragraph 101.

69 A “work made for hire” is (1) a work prepared by an employee within the scope of his or her employment. 17 U.S.C. paragraph 101.

70 Such test-case is also used by scholars to speculate on the question of ownership of game developers/players over characters and in-game items within virtual worlds.

71 There are virtual worlds which provide their internal auction services for items and characters pertaining to their world, such as the “Station Exchange” from Sony’s EverQuest II, available at http://stationexchange.station.sony.com/.

72 In World of Warcraft, the level of the different avatars (evaluated in terms of skill, intelligence, abilities, powers, etc) ranges from 20 to 50, www.worldofwarcraft.com .

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main problems that IP law encounters when regulating virtual worlds: the “dogma” and the “mirror” problems. While the dogma problem underlines the IP law utilitarian “distortion,” recognizing that the current application of intellectual property law in virtual worlds is failing to follow the utilitarian principles that it should, provoking an unbalanced and abusive distribution of rights between the game developers and the users (illegitimately favouring the former); the mirror problem reveals the insufficiency of the utilitarian view over property rights in capturing the full complexity of the avatars. In other words, a strictly utilitarian view of IP law is argued to only perceive the avatar as a property item in its economic vest and pecuniary value, failing to perceive the virtual character according to its sentimental value and personal bond established with the user, that is, as a persistent extension of the user’s identity and personality. In this regard, the problem has been termed “mirror” in order to illustrate the idea that one sees himself in the objects, capturing thus the Hegel idea of property as “embodied personality” or Radin’s “property for personhood.”

In what follows, we will describe the dogma problem of copyright – according to which, IP law’s current codification in the EULAs is rendering the authorship attribution of creative works to virtual worlds users a very difficult (if not impossible) task. Confronted with such problem, we propose the representation of virtual worlds through the image of jigsaw puzzles.

Such metaphor, furthermore, will serve as an operational criterion through which the “problematic” authorship over avatars can be correctly asserted. While the first problem (the “dogma” one) can still be solved within a utilitarian understanding of IP law applied to virtual worlds, the second problem questions that very same utilitarian justification, calling our attention to the other important dimension involved in the relationship between users and avatars: the personal attachment and the self-identification process the users develop with their avatars. In this sense, it is argued that utilitarianism does not capture the whole complexity of avatars, focusing solely upon the economic component and value of the latter, and thus neglecting the “mirror effect” of avatars, that is, the personality extension and the self-identification process that also characterizes the relation between the user and the avatar. As such, in Part VI – entitled “beyond the puzzle” –, we will analyse the “mirror” problem, proposing the theory of “Property for personhood,” authored by Margaret Jane Radin, as a possible solution. But before, we shall address our first problem: the dogma one B. The “Dogma” Problem Looking briefly at the main objectives and principles justifying property rights, namely in the US, one soon realises that property law follows a utilitarian “dogma.” In this regard, the US Constitution is clearly inspired by utilitarian views over property, stating as underlying justifications for property the endorsement of certain policy goals, such as promoting the progress of science and useful arts.73 Following the utilitarian reasoning, the fundamental premise of copyright law is that creative works benefit society as a whole.74 In this sense, and continuing with the example of the U.S., copyright law is intended to maximize the production and dissemination of creative expression,75 providing creators with economic incentives in order to encourage the production of creative works that concomitantly yield tangible benefits to the

73

U.S. Const. Art. I, paragraph 8, cl. 8

74

See, e.g., Campbell v. Acuff-Rose Music, Inc., 510 U.S. 569, 578–79 (1994).

Goldstein (2003) paragraph 1.14.

75

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public.76 As such, “U.S. copyright law is said to be utilitarian because it offers private incentives for the purpose of realizing this public objective.” (Garlick, 2005, p. 436) The monetary reward given to creators is, thus, a secondary consideration lying in the shadow of the copyright’s primary concern – the general access to literary and artistic works as a public good.77 Nevertheless, due to the peculiarly collaborative nature of virtual worlds and taking into account the dominant utilitarian objectives of intellectual property law in the US, one can claim that IP law, when applied to virtual worlds, is failing to follow its own utilitarian “dogma” and its fundamental principles. On the one hand, copyright’s current codification does not recognize the user’s creative works and contributions within virtual worlds. On the other hand, copyright – as a “law primarily designed to encourage and protect creative expression.” (Garlick, 2005, p.43) – should provide for the player’s creative work protection. In other words, copyright is blocked in its current legal drafting and interpretation, failing to attain and pursue its primary goals and concerns.

In this aspect, one should not forget that the overriding utilitarian objective of IP Law, namely of copyright, is to maximize the creation and dissemination of creative works. Virtual worlds, as places of imagination and creation, although not envisaged by current copyright drafting, should not be precluded from copyright’s foundational rationales and assumptions. In this sense, if technological change has rendered copyright’s terms ambiguous, copyright law must be construed in light of its fundamental purposes.78 In sum, the creative effort and artistic work entailed by the user should not be neglected and disregarded in copyright’s current framework and interpretation, but valued and protected through IP law’s principles.

Consider[ing] the stated overriding utilitarian purpose of U.S. copyright law – to maximize the creation and dissemination of creative works – how is it that the grant of exclusive rights to game providers is deemed likely to achieve that purpose, but that the recognition of online gamer rights is not? (Garlick, 2005, p. 455).

Since the grant of exclusive rights to game providers is made possible through the EULAs, an answer to such question should entail a re-interpretation of these End-User License 76 See Sony Corp. of Am. v. Universal City Studios, Inc., 464 U.S. 417, 429 (1984); United States v. Paramount Pictures, 334 U.S. 131, 158 (1948) (“Reward to the author or artist serves to induce release to the public of the products of his creative genius.”).

77 E.g., Feist Publ’ns, Inc. v. Rural Tel. Serv. Co., 499 U.S. 340, 349–50 (1991) (“The primary objective of copyright is not to reward the labor of authors, but ‘to promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts.’ . . . To this end, copyright assures authors the right to their original expression, but encourages others to build freely upon the ideas and information conveyed by a work.” (quoting U.S. CONST. art. I, paragraph 8, cl. 8) (alteration in original)); Sony Corp., 464 U.S. at 429 (“The monopoly privileges that Congress may authorize are neither unlimited nor primarily designed to provide a special private benefit. Rather. [sic] the limited grant is a means by which an important public purpose may be achieved.”); Twentieth Century Music Corp. v. Aiken, 422 U.S. 151, 156 (1975) (“Creative work is to be encouraged and rewarded, but private motivation must ultimately serve the cause of promoting broad public availability of literature, music, and the other arts.”); Mazer v. Stein, 347 U.S. 201, 219 (1954) (“‘The copyright law . . . makes reward to the owner a secondary consideration.’ . . . It is ‘intended. . . to afford greater encouragement to the production or literary [or artistic] works of lasting benefit to the world.’” (citations omitted) (first bracketed alteration in original)).

78 Twentieth Century Music Corp. v. Aiken, 422 U.S. 151, 156 (1975) (“The immediate effect of our copyright law is to secure a fair return for an ‘author’s’ creative labor. But the ultimate aim is, by this incentive, to stimulate artistic creativity for the general public good. . . .When technological change has rendered its literal terms ambiguous, the Copyright Act must be construed in light of this basic purpose.”) (internal citations omitted).

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Agreements. As we have alluded before, the EULAs force the players to waive any property rights before entering the virtual world, preventing them to claim any sort of ownership over the items they create and produce. As a result, the game developers retain all the property rights over virtual worlds, framing copyright within the premises established in those contracts.79 Leaving aside the question of whether private contracts can supersede elements of the intellectual property law regime,80 courts should interpret the terms of those contracts in light of the copyright’s utilitarian foundational principles and constitutionally enshrined. Those principles, in my understanding, should allow for the recognition of virtual artistic and literary creations authored also by the players, envisaging the expansion of the real public domain, and thus the public good. The policy would then be to encourage creative works so as to increase the public good. In this sense, virtual worlds should be seen “… not only as games, but as mediums through which creators can contribute to the public good of both virtual and real environments” (Reuveni, 2007, p.296) The “dogma problem”, furthermore, causes copyright law to reward and value only some authors and not others.81 In other words, copyright law constructs a very narrow conception of author, in which game developers are, within virtual worlds, the only ones allowed in. The removal of users from any kind of authorship entitlements, leaving their contribution “not just undervalued but unvalued” (Garlick, 2005, p. 457), is due to what Mia Garlick (2005) calls the “problem of the Romantic Author” (p. 455).

Players are thus ostracized “precisely because they are not perceived as equivalent to the Romantic author, for whom creativity occurs independently. When compared with the Romantic author, online gamers who commercialize or rely on the content of games for creative expression will be deemed to be ‘free riding’, even ‘pirating’, on the hard labor and genius of these more genuine authors, adding nothing which society considers worthy of reward and encouragement.”

(Garlick, 2005, p.457) In theoretical terms, the proposition is simple and fair: if IP law is to be interpreted according to its primary utilitarian objectives, copyright protection to the player’s original creative works within virtual worlds should be recognized and granted. In practical terms, nevertheless, the question is far more complicated. How can one evaluate if a user’s contribution to the virtual world amounts to an original and creative work worthy of receiving copyright protection? In order to answer the question and analyse correctly the nature of the contribution provided by the user, we propose the “jigsaw puzzle” metaphor as a tool to carry out such examination.

Bearing in mind that the user’s highly participatory role in virtual worlds (as a conducer) challenges the current EULAs drafting and correspondent in-game practices, which distort a correct utilitarian understanding of property attribution in virtual worlds;82 we propose a new 79

“It is unfair to permit a powerful contracting party to enrich itself at the expense of a powerless gamer by extracting the gamer’s intellectual property rights as the price of admittance to the virtual world” (Reuveni, 2007, p.304) 80 The analysis of the validity and enforceability of the EULAs and the relation between copyright and contract law go beyond the scope of this article. For a detailed account of that issue, see Reuveni (2007).

81 Garlick (2005, p. 457) citing David Lange, At play in the field of the word: copyright and the construction of authorship in the post-literature millennium, 55 SPG Law & Contemp. Probs. 139, 143 (Spring 1992).

82 And in the view of others, challenging the very fundamentals of copyright law (Garlick, 2005, p.454).

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way of seeing and analysing virtual worlds, which hopes to cover and explains these virtual intricacies and subtleties – Jigsaw Worlds.

V. Jigsaw Puzzle jigsaw (puzzle) noun 1 a picture stuck onto wood or cardboard and cut into irregular pieces which must be joined together correctly to form the picture again 2 a complicated or mysterious problem which can only be solved or explained by connecting several pieces of information.83 puzzle over sth phrasal verb to try to solve a problem or understand a situation by thinking carefully about it.84

Virtual worlds, just like the term jigsaw, can represent both a puzzle cut into pieces which can be joined together, as well as a complicated problem difficult to solve. The first section of this part will deal with the “virtual-world-puzzle,” applying the jigsaw metaphor to those environments and explaining how such term can be used to explain the workings and dynamisms of virtual worlds. The second section will tackle the “virtual-world-problem,” revisiting the IP law questions and problems deriving from the “distorted” utilitarian application of copyright to these environments. The idea is thus to offer a tool and a criteria through which copyright can be better understood (and hopefully) applied within the utilitarian framework. The final section of this essay will, instead, focus upon the issues that go beyond the jigsaw and the utilitarian scope, crossing the boundary between property and personality.

A. Virtual World Puzzle Imagine a jigsaw puzzle composed of millions of different pieces, each one with different shapes, sizes, colours and functions. Some of the pieces would be musical; others would be textual while the remaining would be graphical ones. It would be a special jigsaw, as those pieces could be combined together in an infinitely imaginative way, fitting together in a billion of different manners to make an endless range of different constructions, characters and settings.

The jigsaw would be fun, compelling and challenging. You would spend long hours playing around with the pieces, moving them from one side to the other, fitting and putting them together in all sorts of ways and manners. Moreover, you would share this jigsaw with thousands or millions of other people, each one assembling the pieces in a different but harmonious way.

In order to do the jigsaw though, some conditions would have to be respected. First of all, the jigsaw puzzle would not be yours. What you had bought was not the box with all the pieces inside, but a license giving you the right to open the box and play with the pieces. Secondly, you could not keep to yourself any of the constructions you had made with the pieces, as at the end you would have to return all the pieces and put them inside the box. In other words, as long as the pieces you used to make constructions with were the ones given by the owner of the jigsaw, 83

From Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary, available at http://www.dictionary.cambridge.org/define.asp?key=42681&dict=CALD 84 Ibid., available at http://www.dictionary.cambridge.org/define.asp?key=100863&dict=CALD

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the latter would be the owner of all such constructions. Those constructions, nonetheless, would continue to exist on the next day, as the jigsaw would be persistent and continuous. Nevertheless, the owner of the jigsaw could, at any time and at his will, introduce more pieces, change some and delete others. The owner could even take the box from your hands, prohibiting you to continue playing. What kind of jigsaws are these? Puzzled? Welcome to the virtual-puzzleworlds.

Jigsaws share important features and characteristics with virtual worlds, fact which can be used to explain the composition and the functioning of the latter. Jigsaws are not presented to us as products already made and constructed, instead they are cracked into pieces which we have to join together. No one buys puzzles already made; the fun of it is to make them! Just like virtual worlds, the idea is to build those worlds and to construct our character from scratch – fitting together the pieces that the game developer supplies to us. In this sense, both jigsaws and virtual worlds are continuous and collaborative projects, requiring the time and skill of players.

In this sense, the profile of a jigsaw user corresponds to the profile of a virtual world user, as both fit the model of a conducer, that is, of a kind of hybrid consumer/producer who buys entertainment to produce their own entertainment.85 Furthermore, the pieces and the process of combining them together to form the jigsaw reflect, metaphorically speaking, two different aspects of the virtual world’s own processes and mechanics. On the one hand, jigsaw pieces represent the bits, as the most elementary unites composing the game. In a way, and looking rather crudely at the technicalities of game play, playing in virtual worlds (and online games in general) equates to be manipulating bits in a database. As a result, bits, like jigsaw-pieces, are put together and inserted in a determined place within a database in order to attain a certain effect or produce something in the game. The possibility of the jigsaw owner changing, deleting or introducing new pieces, as mentioned before, corresponds to the role of game developers as code-makers, operating the software through which they control every aspect of the virtual world. On the other hand, the fitting of the pieces together represent also the accomplishment of quests and the resolution of enigmas and puzzles that make up the game and challenge the player.86 In this sense, and according to gamedesigner Will Wright, the game represents a problem landscape. According to Wright, while most games have small solution landscapes, in which there is only one possible solution and one way to solve it; the games that tend to be more creative, have a much larger solution space, allowing the player to potentially solve this problem in a way that nobody else has.87 In terms of game design, the jigsaw metaphor also illustrates the two “spaces” involved in the conception of online games, that is, the “possibility space” and the “topography space.”88 85

Garlick (2005), p. 423 (citing “Sims, BattleBots, Cellular Automata God and Go, a conversation with Will Wright

by Celia Pearce, 2 International Journal Of Computer Game Research, (July 2002), at http://www.gamestudies.org/0102/pearce) 86 In this aspect, we are referring essentially to virtual worlds which establish goals, missions and objectives, such as the defeat of a given monster or the discovery of a certain treasure in the so-called “sword-and-sorcery” games like “World of Warcraft” and “EverQuestII”, or “social” goals such as finding a partner and getting married in “The Sims Online”. Open-ended worlds such as “There” and “Second Life” have no plotline or goals, “merely” consisting in social platforms.

87 Pearce, C., Sims, BattleBots, Cellular Automata God and Go, a conversation with Will Wright, 2 International Journal of Computer Game Research, July 2002. Retrieved September 12, 2008 from http://www.gamestudies.org/0102/pearce.

88 Ibid.

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As such, a user in an online game is free to choose a number of actions – the possibility space – within a set of pre-determined constraints – the topography space. Thus, in a sense, players determine their own game within the series of parameters set by the game provider (Garlick, 2005, p.424).

In the jigsaw the process is similar to the one in virtual worlds,89 in the sense that a user is free to make the puzzle at his own way (having at his disposal a million of different ways to do it, starting from the corners or from the centre, doing it in parts, etc) but within the constraint of having to attain, at the end, a given image represented in the jigsaw as a whole. The distinction between the possibility and the topography spaces, as well as their respective sizes comparing with one another, touches the issue of control of the game developer over the user in the game, as well as the degree of freedom that the latter has within the virtual space. In this sense, the bigger and more complex an image of a jigsaw is, the more constraints90 a user will have in joining the pieces together B. Virtual World Problem The image of virtual worlds as jigsaws can also be useful in the analysis of the questions and problems that these new digital environments pose to intellectual property law. Such difficulties, as we have seen, derive from the collaborative nature of virtual worlds, where the player takes an active and artistic role, investing time, effort and skills in the development of ingame items and in the creation of characters. As a result, and as we have already seen, a conflict between game developers and user has been formed over the question of ownership over these virtual assets. The complexity of the question of ownership in virtual worlds is especially reflected in its most salient feature – the avatar – in which the combined efforts made by both game developers and players in its creation and development also converge. As a result, the question that urges to be answered concerns the authorship over avatars. Who exactly owns the avatars – the company that creates the game, or the player whose time and effort brings the avatar into existence?91 Who should be considered the author of the avatar - the game developers or the players? Who is the puzzle maker, the one that made the pieces or the one that puts them together?

Such question is problematic and difficult, as the origins and birth of avatars are somewhat nebulous. On the one hand, the characters are already pre-defined by the game developers. As such, even the most advanced and powerful avatars have all been programmed beforehand by the game designers. The set of attributes that compose the avatar, such as the character’s physical characteristics – including body proportions, facial features, clothing and skin colour – or even the avatar’s psychological qualities92 were all formerly set by the game developers. Recurring to our image of a jigsaw, everything concerning the appearance and the 89

Obviously the level of creativity and interaction permitted in virtual worlds is completely different from the one allowed in the making of jigsaws. Nevertheless, and for the purpose of illustrating the player’s freedom and constraints in virtual worlds – distinguishing between possibility and topography spaces – the jigsaw-puzzle metaphor stands.

90 Meaning, in this case, difficulties.

91 Julian Dibbell Owned!, State of Play 138 (substituting the terms “game-world economies” and “economy” with the term avatar) 92 In the Sims Online is even possible to choose the astrological sign, the aspirations, objectives and desires of our avatar.

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attributes of our avatars have been previously set and established (just like the overall picture craved in a puzzle), being afterwards cracked into small pieces that the player has to join together. As a result, the contribution of players would merely be an investment of time, involving “… the selection and arrangement of pre-determined images and plotlines of game providers” (Garlick, 2005, p. 455),93 just like a player fitting together a group of pre-defined pieces of a jigsaw-puzzle.94 On the other hand, “complex characters require hundreds of hours to create, and although the game developers have created the potential for these characters to exist by programming them into the software code, they do not actually appear in the game until a player has invested a significant amount of time in overcoming game obstacles to build the character” (Stephens, 2002, p. 8). In “puzzle terms,” the players argue that the amount of time spent in putting the pieces together to do the jigsaw should entitle them to claim property rights over the puzzle. In addition, the investment of time and skill creating and developing the character sparks in the player a feeling of ownership over the avatar.95 In terms of attributing intellectual property rights over avatars, and following the jigsaw puzzle metaphor, the normal and most recurrent situation is to grant ownership to the game developers, who are in fact the authors of the work, fulfilling both copyright requisites of originality and fixation. In this sense, they emerge as the original and creative jigsaw makers, while the users merely reconstruct what was previously done.96 The contrary position would be as odd as a player putting the pieces together of a jigsaw and claiming afterwards to be the author of the picture or painting represented in that jigsaw.

In this respect, the image of a jigsaw puzzle can also be of some assistance in the clarification of the concept of originality, as “touchstone of copyright subsistence” (Garlick, 2005, p. 455). The modicum of creativity required to qualify a given work as original, as well as the source of its authorship – game developers versus user - can be more easily assessed.

Originality, thus, could not emerge as long as the user is only moving the pieces provided by the game developer, putting them together in one way or the other. The constructions resulting from that process would not be original, pertaining thus to the game designer.

Nevertheless, there are situations in which the grant of property rights to players over their avatars can be duly justified. In accordance with the fulfilment of certain conditions, fitting the pieces together to make a jigsaw can amount to the necessary originality to deserve copyright protection. Such view is supported by three arguments.

Firstly, it is important to bear in mind that copyright demands only a low threshold of creativity (comparing to patent law for instance). In fact, for copyright to subsist, the amount of contribution must be more than a merely trivial variation and involve a modicum of creativity.97 93

In addition, mere effort and labor are insufficient for copyright to subsist. Feist Publ’ns, 499 U.S. at 340.

Moreover, it would be unlikely that such kind of contribution, translated into “… an investment of time and decisions about a series of choices within a pre-determined ‘possibility space’ would be considered by the courts to be the kind of original creativity which merits copyright protection.” (Garlick, 2005, p.455) 95 See Leslie Brooks Suzukamo, Online role playing games gain in popularity, Knight Ridder-Tribune Bus. News, Feb. 26, 2001, 2001 WL 15013352.).

96 In this sense, “Although players invest a good deal of time and creativity in developing their characters, the characters are made possible only by the game developers. The game developers have created the foundation and potential for these complex assets and characters, which suggests that the developers should have some rights in these works” (Stephens, 2002, p. 10).

97 Feist Publ’ns, 499 U.S. at 340.

94

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Such minimum level of creativity leads us to the question of what should be deemed as an original contribution from the user and what should not. The answer will vary according to the virtual world in question. The game City of Heroes,98 for instance, offers “… a complex character development system providing players billions of possible combinations when rendering an avatar’s graphical appearance” (Reuveni, 2007, p. 282). Furthermore, City of Villains,99 NCSoft’s follow-up to City of Heroes, boasts a “staggering” range of possible player permutations, effectively providing players endless choice in creating their avatars” (Reuveni, 2007, p. 282).100 Within these games, the wide range of possibilities given to the players (whose possibility space, in this matter, is almost endless) may justify the grant of copyright protection to their avatars. In this sense, Reuveni (2007) argues that a “truly complex system might provide sufficient choice to justify copyright” (p. 282). In other worlds, such as MappleStory,101 in which the configuration of avatars presents very few different possibilities, copyright will not be granted. In the case of this game, “given the limited tools most game developers provide players for character creation, many characters will likely fail to satisfy the level of distinctiveness that copyright requires” (Reuveni, 2007, p. 282).

Accordingly, such a panoply of options poses the question of knowing how much “room of creative manoeuvre” a game developer can give to the user in order for the latter to claim copyright protection over his or her creations. In sum, taking into account the low threshold of creativity required for copyright and the fact that a number of virtual worlds offer a possibility space composed of thousands and millions of variables available for the avatar’s appearance, copyright protection should be rightfully granted in those cases.102 As a second reason for supporting an eventual copyright grant to player’s creations, one should be aware that virtual worlds do not come from zero; they are not devised “ex nihilo.”

Instead, they are based on existing material, bringing their characters, stories and settings from other sources. Virtual worlds are inspired by ideas, thoughts, and works from other authors and creators. Many of them even present common characteristics and features.103 In this sense, virtual worlds fit into Lavoisier’s theory that “nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed.” An evocative example of this transformative flow can be found in Tolkien’s legacy, the English writer and university professor who popularized fictional settings and fantastical creatures known as Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, Wizards or Orcs through his literary works, namely “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings”. Such fantasy and imaginary universe has since then inspired short stories, video games, artworks and musical works.

Moreover, adaptations of The “Lord of the Rings” have been made for radio, theatre, film (the 98

http://www.cityofheroes.com/ http://www.cityofvillains.com/ 100 Reuveni (2007, p. 282).

101 http://en.mapleeurope.com/Maple.aspx 102 Moreover, it would be unreasonable to argue that those creations do not gather the minimum modicum of creativity based on the fact that they would inevitably correspond to a given variable programmed by the game designer (within the million other ones inserted into the software).

103 “Indeed, many in-game features of online games are similar, for example, three different classes of avatars and the presence of different worlds connected by portals/ stargates in both Asheron’s Call 2 and Earth&Beyond. Other games share features such as the ability to trade in-game and engage in player versus player combat. All games share the common overall objective of levelling up. The question is where to draw the line between protected and unprotected elements.” (Garlick, 2005, p. 476) 99

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widely acclaimed and Hollywood Oscar winner trilogy) and, inevitably, to virtual worlds, with the MMORPG “Lord of the Rings – Shadows of Angmar.”104 Other examples of original works coming from books or movies and reaching the domain of virtual worlds are the games “Star Wars Galaxies” and “The Matrix Online.” Such chain of ideas and inspiration makes us wonder how legitimate it is for a game designer, self-proclaimed property owner of his virtual world, including characters which he borrowed from Tolkien and others, to preclude players from asserting any property rights of their own.

The third reason supporting the possibility of granting players with property rights deals with the incentives to create in virtual worlds. As such, those environments are spaces designed to incite creation, foster artistic activities and cultivate imaginative endeavours. Virtual worlds are made of and for creation, invention and imagination. As such, copyright’s underlying principles and assumptions should protect and promote those places by recognizing the creative flow of artistic works produced by users within its premises. Copyright should not be locked in private agreements which undermine player’s artistic creations by removing their legitimate ownership entitlements on behalf of game developers. Judges, legislators and practitioners must acknowledge that virtual worlds are not mere video games, passive entertainments in which the player is bound to follow the game designers plot, slaughtering the dragon and rescuing the princess. In virtual worlds, the player can be the dragon, creating his own story and following his own plotline. The user is provided with tools to create, to construct and to invent. As such, it is at least paradoxical that such spaces, which are meant to appeal to the player’s creative and artistic side, prohibit any kind of player’s ownership over such creations. Such restriction, moreover and according to a utilitarian view, diminishes the incentives on players to create within virtual worlds.

Another case in which the player could be granted copyright protection for his constructions would be for jigsaw pieces which would not pertain to the original puzzle, being introduced in the puzzle by the player who would combine them with others. Such “alien” jigsaw pieces intrusion is happening already in virtual worlds, namely in Second Life which provides their players with the coding tools necessary to construct in-game items.105 In fact, in Second Life it is possible to create potentially irreplaceable virtual property as their “users…can write computer programs that represent buildings, vehicles, weapons, games, and almost anything the mind can imagine” (Meehan, 2006, p. 42).106 As such, “a proficient coder would have far more permutations available to him or her than a player relying on a game developer’s preset options” (Reuveni, 2007, p.282). In order to evaluate if the player’s creation could in fact merit copyright protection, courts would have to analyze “the amount and substantiality of the portion used in relation to the copyrighted work as whole.”107 In this context, courts would first consider how many of the original art assets were taken and how important those assets are to the original

104

Released by Turbine Inc. in the United States and Europe on April 24th of 2007, http://www.lotro.com/ See Second Life Scripting: at http://secondlife.com/whatis/scripting.php (describing the coding tools available to players in Second Life, a virtual world).

106 In virtual worlds built as spaces for creativity and innovation – as Second Life, in which much of the creativity is derivative, the player’s authorship over his or her artistic works is already protected through a limited number of intellectual property rights granted to them.

107 17 U.S.C. paragraph 107(3).

105

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game.108 According to the number of pieces of the jigsaw belonging to the player, the respective work could then be copyrighted (or not) by the player.

In sum, and in accordance with certain conditions, a player can in fact be considered an author under copyright law.109 Previously, in the context of video games, players’ participation was held to be insufficiently creative to render them authors. Playing a video game was seen more like changing channels on a television than writing a novel or painting a picture.110 With the incessant technological developments and the rise of participatory and collaborative virtual worlds, players should be given the opportunity to qualify as potential creators and artists.

VI. Beyond the Jigsaw Puzzle…

A. The “Mirror” Problem As we have seen, the jigsaw metaphor is particularly important in terms of delineating the extent to which the utilitarian view of intellectual property rights can justify the attribution of avatar ownership to users (to the detriment to game owners). Nevertheless, the story does not end here as IP law still faces a second problem: the personal attachment and the self-identification process users establish with their avatars, that is, the “mirror problem.”

The fact that we mirror ourselves in the avatars, depositing and reflecting in them part of our identity and personality, brings additional problems for the utilitarian understanding of intellectual property. The “mirror problem” demonstrates that the utilitarian perspective pending over IP law does not traditionally account for the emotional and intimate value of the object of property, disregarding in general the psychological attachment that the human user builds upon certain things. Such problem is particularly true in the case of virtual worlds, as the elements of the game to which players have a sense of entitlement and attachment are regarded without such emotional charge, especially in the case of avatars when perceived as extensions of the human user. In other words, the passionate way in which players involve themselves in the game, experiencing a feeling of belonging to that space and projecting their own identity in their avatars, which suddenly becomes a carrier of their personality, is not taken into consideration by the utilitarian perspective of intellectual property law. Furthermore, the inability of copyright (understood in its utilitarian mask) to consider the personal and intimate attachment developed by the player towards the avatar has been identified by several legal scholars.111 Mia Garlick 108

Harper & Row, 471 U.S. at 564-66.

Even if one follows Fairfield’s theory of virtual property and define virtual items pertaining or created within virtual worlds as virtual property (instead of intellectual one), the jigsaw puzzle maintains its value and usefulness, operating as a criteria individuating which items could be claimed by users as their (virtual) property. In this case, the jigsaw puzzle would support the granting of virtual property rights in those items (rather than IP rights) in favour of the users. In fact, and as we shall see in the following section of the paper, our position is to argue in favour of granting users with virtual property rights over their avatars.

110 In Midway Manufacturing Co. v. Artic International, Inc., 704 F.2d 1009, at 1002 (7th Cir. 1983) 111 In fact, the leading theorist of Property for Personhood, although far from the virtual worlds’ context, addresses strong criticisms to the utilitarian view of Property, targeting namely Eric Posner. Margaret Jane Radin, as we will see next in further detail, divides property into personal and fungible, describing the former as essential for our constitution as persons and, as such, arguing in favour of greater legal protection to personal than to fungible property. Taking into account such model, Radin criticizes the utilitarians in this way: “in contrast to these assertions that certain property claims are stronger than others, some utilitarians might claim that since there is only one social goal, maximization of welfare, so there is only one kind of property – that which results in maximization of welfare” (Radin, 1993, pp. 51-52); furthermore, “all entitlements are treated alike in the economic model. Economists 109

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(2005), for instance, refers that copyright law “… is unable to recognize the very real feeling of entitlement which gamers feel in and to online games” (p. 461). In this sense, it is very unlikely that the users will be deemed original authors, as the nature of their contributions involves the investment of time, relationship and emotions (Garlick, 2005, p.461). Reynolds (2003b), going even further in his claim, argues that the relationship between representation of persona and the individual has, in at least some cases, values that may not easily be expressed in terms of property rights (Reynolds, 2003b).

In this context, it is important to mention that avatars can induce in their users a feeling and interest that goes beyond the mere utilitarian property expectation (which deals with private incentives and public goods). In certain cases, the creation and use of avatars have the potential of creating in their respective users a relation of self-identity, shifting our legal analysis beyond the puzzle and away from the utilitarian property framework, entering the field of the complex interaction between property and personality. In this sense, and as we have seen at the beginning of this essay, avatars have the particularity of blurring the supposedly rigid fields of property and personality (according to which, one things is to own and another is to be). When confronted with the mirror problem, the utilitarian justification of IP law looses much of its value and use, as it is not able to include the personality element present in certain property relationships, as the one between the user and the avatar. In order to capture the full complexity of the avatars, namely their blurred location at the crossroad between property and personality, it is imperative to resort to other constructions and conceptions of property theorization. As such, the following section introduces a property theory that, by incorporating the personality dimension in property, will attempt to solve the mirror problem: Margaret Jane Radin’s theory of “Property for” Personhood.

B. Theory of “Property for Personhood” In the modern legal literature, property and personality have been “re-connected” through the theory of “Property for Personhood” authored by Margaret Jane Radin (1982), who argued that property in things enhances the personhood of the proprietor, justifying property “on the basis of a personhood-constituting connection between the potential owner and the thing claimed” (Spence, 2007, p.50).

Such theory derives from the so-called personality theories, according to which private property rights “should be recognized when and only when they would promote human flourishing by protecting or fostering fundamental human needs or interests” (Fisher in Munzer, 2001, p.189). Taking into account the wide variety of possible interests that may be deemed fundamental, and drawing from Waldron’s research, Fisher (2001) argues (in the context of intellectual property rights) that “personhood based guidelines for crafting such rights must be found, if anywhere, in some combination of the interests of privacy, individual self-realization, identity, and benevolence” (p.190). Also circumscribed to intellectual property, Spence (2007) advances that the “argument from personhood is that the act of creation entails the embodiment of the personality, or personhood, of the creator on the intangible which she produces. In order to

typically rely on efficiency criteria and not on perspective of autonomy or personhood in seeking to determine whether certain entitlements should be accorded greater protection than others” (Radin, 1993, ft.82, p.216)

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protect her as a person it is essential to give her some control over the intangibles in which she has invested herself” (pp.49-50).

Although departing from the property theory of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, according to which the person becomes a real self only by engaging in a property relationship with something external, Radin’s (1982) construes a somewhat different thesis.112 The main difference regards the scope of the theories, as Radin focuses solely upon property, while Hegel uses the latter as only one step in his encompassing grand theory of the Philosophy of Right. In this regard, “whereas the theory of personal property begins with the notion that human individuality is inseparable from object-relations of some kind, Hegel makes object-relations the first step on his road from abstract autonomy to full development of the individual in the context of the family and the state” (Radin, 1993, p.45). Hence, according to Hegel, property is only the first embodiment of freedom.113 Or in other words, “Hegel’s property theory is only the first part of a logical and historical progression from abstract units of autonomy to developed individuals in the context of a developed community” (Radin, 1993, p.45). In this context, Spence (2007) argues that the argument from personhood as a justification for property has been wrongly attributed to Hegel, who “has more of a concern for personal autonomy” (p.50).

Radin (1993) has developed her theory of property for personhood, claiming that in order “to achieve proper self-development – to be a person – an individual needs some control over resources in the external environment” (p.35). Following such reasoning, “if property that is intimately connected to, and valued by, the person is taken away, then the person is concomitantly reduced as a person” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.7). Based on such premises, Radin argued in favour of the recognition of a right to property for personhood.

The value of property, within this perspective, is so relevant to personality that “certain categories of property can bridge the gap, or blur the boundary, between the self and the world, between what is inside and outside, between what is subject and object” (Radin, 1995, p.426).

But not all categories of property are able to bridge such gap. In this context, Radin distinguishes between two types of property: personal property and fungible property. While property for personhood is property that triggers the process of self-construction and self-identification between the subject and the object (blurring the boundaries between the both), amounting to a “relationship to an external thing that contributes to a person’s feelings of well-being, freedom and identity” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.7); fungible property is property that is interchangeable with any other and exists mainly for wealth creation. In Radin’s (1993) own words, while personal property is “property that is bound up with a person,” the fungible is “property that is held purely instrumentally” (p.37). In analysing “the strength or significance to someone’s relationship with an object by the kind of pain that would be occasioned by its loss” (Radin, 1993, p.37), personal property is – according to Radin - composed by objects closely related to one’s personhood, in the sense that “its loss causes pain that cannot be relieved by the object’s replacement” (Radin, 1993, p.37), while fungible property encompasses the items which value is primarily monetary and which loss would not seriously affect an individual’s personhood.

112

According to Michael Spence (2007), “although Radin bases her argument on the work of Hegel, it is distinguishable from any argument of his” (p.50).

113 In Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, “freedom is finally realized when the individual will unites with and express itself as part of the objective ethical order – an absolute mind or spirit (Geist) embodied by the state” (Radin, 1993, ft. 43, p. 211).

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In Radin’s theoretical construction, property which contributes to personality is socially more important than fungible property, meriting stronger legal protection (likewise, “one element of the intuitive personhood perspective is that property for personhood gives rise to a stronger moral claim than other property” “[Radin, 1993, p.48]). Moreover, the American scholar finds evidence to support her claim in some US Supreme Court decisions, arguing “that they reveal a judiciary that is more willing to protect personal property than fungible property” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.7).

Following Radin’s thesis that property does not amount to the object that is owned by a subject, but as something that bridges the gap between object and subject, can we apply such property conception to the avatars? By arguing, like Radin, that the object is part of the person’s identity, can we claim that avatars are a category of property for personhood and, as such, part of the user’s identity? A positive answer would entail the attribution of the avatars’ ownership to their users, to detriment to the game developers, as avatars – conceived as property intimately connected to the user – would enhance the personhood of the latter. Nevertheless, to answer that question we must first clarify what type of property can be regarded as property for personhood.

Margaret Radin, in her list of examples of property for personhood, mentions a person’s primary place of residence, cars and objects of particular sentimental value, such as wedding rings.

Moving to the case of the avatars, there are at least three difficulties in applying Radin’s thesis to the inhabitants of virtual worlds.

C. Problems in applying the Theory of Property for Personhood in the Virtual Realm 1. Heterogeneity and Diversity of Avatars.

The first difficulty one encounters in applying Radin’s theory of “Property for Personhood” is the incredible heterogeneity of purposes and feelings the users have and develop towards their avatars. In this sense, while many players use their avatars just for pure entertainment; others will use to conduct business; while some will acquire immense popularity and notoriety through their avatars, many will rest in the shadow of anonymity; while many develop a complex online identity through their digital selves, others will just create and develop avatars in order to re-sell them afterwards and make profit. Taking into account such disparate interests and processes, it is extremely difficult to fit the avatars, as a homogeneous group, in either the box of property for personhood or fungible property. Nevertheless, the task is not that hard, as Radin does not divide property into personal and fungible as two isolated, dichotomic and non-communicative boxes, but as a “continuum from fungible to personal” (Radin, 1993, p.53), that is, as “a continuum that ranges from a thing indispensable to someone’s being to a thing wholly interchangeable with money” (Radin, 1993, p.53). As a result, “many relationships between persons and things will fall somewhere in the middle” (Radin, 1993, p.53). As the avatars can be anywhere in this continuum, the solution for such problem is then to resort to a case-by-case analysis, disentangling the personal and the fungible avatars, and inserting them in the continuum, that is, somewhere between the fungible and the personal end-points. If the avatar is placed closer to the personhood extreme point of the continuum, one would presuppose that users would have constructed, through their skills, time and effort, an avatar to which they relate and identify themselves with. In that case, the user could argue that the avatar is her personal property - condition of her own personhood - and, as such, deserves stronger legal protection than many other different virtual items and characters. But how can one (let’s imagine the courts within a legal proceeding) determine that the avatar is here or there in such continuum? How can

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one evaluate if the user/avatar relationship is constitutive of one’s sense of self? In proving or ascertaining that kind of particular relationship, one must obviously construct sufficiently objective criteria to identify subject/object relations that truly give rise to personal embodiment or self-constitution of the person. This concern or problem is identified by Radin as the “Problem of Fetishism,” according to which we should not recognize close object-relations as personal property if “the particular nature of the relationship works to hinder rather than to support healthy self-constitution” (Radin, 1993, p.43).

As “the personhood perspective generates a hierarchy of entitlements” (Radin, 1993, p.53), the closer the avatar is placed to the personhood end of the continuum, the stronger the correspondent property entitlement will be. Located, through a case-by-case analysis, in such privileged “position,” the avatar will be considered integrative part of someone’s identity and a condition for the self-development of the user as a person. In other words, and following Radin’s thesis, the value of an avatar would be the same of a wedding ring.

Even if one can successfully make the case that the relation users/avatars – taking into account particular conditions and specific circumstances analysed case-by-case – triggers the personal attachment and the process of self-identification between the user and the virtual character, qualifying the latter as “personal property,” there is a second difficulty one should tackle (and which was identified earlier in the article): the mismatch between virtual and intellectual property law.

2. The mismatch between Virtual and intellectual property.

According to such mismatch, avatars present the qualities and features of tangible (land or chattel) property, but are, nevertheless, governed through property laws meant to regulate intangible objects, that is, intellectual property law. In this sense, and according to the EULAs current drafting, avatars are considered intellectual property. There is thus a mismatch between what virtual property really is (tangible property) and how it is actually being regulated (intangible property). Furthermore, and bearing in mind that Radin’s theory is about chattel or real property (wedding rings, houses and other tangible objects),114 how can one reconcile the IP configuration of the avatars with the chattel property interest that lies behind Radin’s thesis? The solution for this difficulty is, in my view, to combine Fairfield’s theorization of virtual property with the underlying theoretical justification of Radin’s property for personhood, arguing thus for a virtual property interest115 in the avatar based on Radin’s theory.

Before proceeding in the development of this idea, and in order to support our argument, some preliminary explanations should be made. In this regard, we should reassure the reader that we are perfectly aware that Fairfield’s theory draws from utilitarian justifications for property

114

Although, in my view, there is no impediment in applying such theory to intellectual property or, as in this case, to virtual property (especially to the latter, as virtual property is basically equated to physical property).

115 Such virtual property interest will be similar to the one of a chattel or land interest. In this regard, and as Fairfield explains, the reification of virtual property the scholar proposes does not entail “the creation of a separate legal regime. Rather, it is an argument that courts ought to apply common-law property doctrines to certain online resources, because people will make better use of those resources if they are packaged in a given fashion” (2005, p.1096). In this sense, the owner of virtual property owns the same rights that the owner of a book does.

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(and namely from welfare economics).116 Nevertheless, wee see no inherent problem or contradiction in adding a complementary theoretical justification for virtual property, such as Radin’s theory of property for personhood. In order to sustain such a claim, we find extremely important to make the following caveat: recognizing an underlying property for personhood justification for virtual property rights does not undermine the theory of virtual property, neither its basic utilitarian justification. In fact, the application of such theory to the case of virtual property does not challenge or weaken Fairfield’s thesis, on the contrary, it provides a supplementary argumentative justification for the legal recognition of such virtual property rights in the hands of the users.117 In this sense, we are intervening at the level of the theoretical justification for property rights, and not on the concept of property per se to (in this case the one of virtual property). As intellectual property is justified and grounded upon a number of different theories118 (such as utilitarian, labour, personality and social-planning theories), why shouldn’t virtual property (as a novel property concept or form) be debated, argued and justified on grounds that go beyond and that are different from the ones provided by utilitarians? It is exactly here where that Radin’s theory enters and acts upon.

As insistently explained throughout this article, avatars – further to their economic and pecuniary component, which is protected and incentivised according to a utilitarian understanding of property -, also include a very important personality component. In specific and determined cases, avatars are perceived by their users as persistent extension of their own self identity and personality. As such, by endorsing virtual property rights with the theoretical justification of property for personhood, the latter theory finds a supplementary good reason for advocating the ownership of avatars to their users.

Furthermore, we believe the two theories (utilitarianism and property for personhood, framed within a virtual property rights concept) do not undermine each other, but, on the contrary, complement one another, capturing the avatar in its whole complexity, as an element at the crossroad between property and personality. In support of this idea we can resort to Fisher’s (2001) research, which states that many legislative and judicial materials are mixing and blending different theoretical arguments justifying intellectual property. By referring to terms and notions, such as “fairness”, “incentives”, “personality” and “cultural-shaping,” in countless passages of decisions, judicial opinions, statutes and appellate briefs,119 courts are combining utilitarian, labor, personality and social planning theories120 of IP law (and property law in general) in their jurisprudential reasoning. Such “ecumenical” view and application of the different theories of property by courts is contrasted by a “sectarian” and “individualistic” 116

Fairfield justifies his “quest” for the recognition of virtual property under utilitarian principles, advocating the reification of a particular group of online resources so they may be efficiently used and traded. The theory put forward is, moreover, connected to a concern of an eventual underuse of internet resources: a tragedy of the anticommons. As the scholar declares, while arguing in favour of the efficiency gains of regulating virtual property under the common law of property, “a property approach will lower search and negotiation costs, and will generate social wealth and creative incentives to use important resources as well” (Fairfield, 2005, p.1101). The argument for virtual property is thus surrounded by a discourse of incentives, wealth, efficiency and gains.

117 A different problem, as we shall see later as the third difficulty (the market problem), is the contradiction between the utilitarian objective of maximizing welfare, contributing to fostering the market and the inalienability of property (namely property for personhood) presupposed in Radin’s thesis.

118 For a recent account see Spence (2007).

119 For examples of such passages, see Fisher in Munzer, pp. 175-176.

120 Social planning theory is “rooted in the proposition that property rights in general – and intellectual-property rights in particular – can and should be shaped so as to help foster the achievement of a just and attractive culture” (Fisher in Munzer, p. 172)

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approach followed by the academia, which continues to see labor theory, utilitarianism and personality theory as rival perspectives. In explaining the reason behind such sharp contrast, Fisher argues that “theorists are seeing the law through glasses supplied by political philosophy.

In contemporary philosophic debates, natural law, utilitarianism, and theories of the good are generally seen as incompatible perspectives” (Fisher in Munzer, 2001 p.176). As such, and still according to the same scholar, “it is not surprising that legal theorists, familiar with those debates, should separate ideas about intellectual property into similar piles” (Fisher in Munzer, 2001, p.176). This particular approach to theories of property, characterised by rivalry and opposition (which are in large part drawn from Anglo-American political philosophy [Fisher in Munzer, 2001 p.176]) receives a substantially different treatment in Continental European scholarship, as the already referred example of the German conceptualization of copyright - as a hybrid between a personality and a property right – seems to demonstrate.

Drawing from such insights, we propose to follow a complementary approach in dealing with both utilitarian and property for personhood theories, conciliating both of them in the conceptualization of virtual property rights.

Having advocated a conciliatory view between the utilitarian and personality theories of property, we shall now return to our claim, according to which the problem of the mismatch between virtual and intellectual property in the figure of the avatar (our second difficulty) should be solved by granting a virtual property interest in the avatar based on Radin’s theory of personality. Such argument is, moreover, supported by the virtual property theory we analysed in Part III of this essay. In this respect, and following the premises of such thesis, avatars do not amount to intellectual property; avatars, are instead, virtual property: rivalrous, persistent, and interconnected code that mimics real world characteristics (Fairfield, 2005). Defined in this way, there is no conceptual difference – in terms of the relationship proprietor/property - between a virtual world avatar and Radin’s wedding ring. Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, there is no conflict between the recognition of a virtual property right in the avatar attributed to the user and the intellectual property interest in the avatar hold by the game owner. As we have previously seen in the section analysing Fairfield’s virtual property theory, ownership of virtual property does not threaten the intellectual property interest held by the game developer.121 In this way, the ownership of a book is not the ownership of the intellectual property of the novel that the author wrote. Thus, even if Blizzard, for instance, owns the IP in the character, the user owns that one-off copy of the character.122 This solution, in fact, does not undermine the intellectual property interest that the game owner holds in the virtual world.

In this regard, it is crucial to separate intellectual property interest in the virtual world as a whole from the property interest in the code. As such, and following Fairfield’s explanation, one thing is the intellectual property interest of the virtual world owner over the code that creates the graphical representation of textures and surfaces, that is, the “stuff” that composes the threedimensional virtual environment; another (different) thing are all the valuable work created by the inhabitants of the virtual world. The latter gives rise to virtual property rights attributed to the users and independent from the intellectual property rights of the game owner over the environment as a whole. Since virtual property operates as a unified whole only at the level of 121

And the other way around is also true: “intellectual property need not conflict with virtual property. In fact, the two, if well-balanced, will complement each other” (Fairfield, 2005, p.1097).

122 In the same way, even though Toyota’s trademark and patent IP inhere in our car, it is still “our car.”

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code, Fairfield (2005) proposes property-rights recognition at the level of code for virtual property (p.1097). Such recognition would avoid, according to the same scholar, the encroaching of emergent virtual property rights currently produced by the abusive use of the game owner’s intellectual property rights. In other words, as game owners are extending “their (legitimate) claim to the intellectual property in an environment into an illegitimate claim to all of the virtual property possessed by or developed by the inhabitants of the environment” (Fairfield, 2005, p.1083), the recognition of virtual property rights would solve this abuse.

In this way, and bearing in mind the important distinction between intellectual property and virtual property rights, the personhood element would attach to the virtual property component (or more precisely to the virtual property interest that, as we have seen, mimics the real property interest) of the avatar, and not to its IP component.

Nevertheless, there is still a third difficulty one encounters when attempting to apply Radin’s theory of Property for Personhood to avatars, the problem of the market.

3. The “Market” Problem.

Having argued in favour of a virtual property interest in the avatar, based on Radin’s theory of “Property for Personhood,” we still encounter a third problem: the fundamental trouble that Radin’s theory suffers when confronting her form of property with the market.

By arguing that property for personhood, as the term implies, is property that a person uses in her self-construction and self-identification, Radin is implicitly arguing in favour of the inalienability of such kind of property. In fact, by resorting to Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, Radin (1993) refers that “[t]hose things which constitute the will or the personhood must be … inalienable” (ft.46, p.211). Moreover, by advocating the recognition and preservation of some conventional property interests as personal property, in order to protect the latter “against invasion by government and against cancellation by conflicting fungible property claims of other people” (Radin, 1993, p.71), one can (correctly) argue that this type of property is inalienable. In this sense, the fact that a given person is “personally” connected to a certain object is the very reason for keeping that object away from others, that is, outside the market. Such a view would entail a prohibition of selling or transferring such particular kind of objects to another person. In other words, if someone owns an object, considering the latter undistinguishable from herself (and, thus, abolishing the boundary between the subject and the object), that object should be considered part of that person and, as such, untransferable. According to Radin, certain forms of property (not the fungible kind, but personal property – such as wedding rings) constitute ways to achieve proper self-development, that is, essential instruments to become and be a person. As such, if that property is loss, then the person is concomitantly reduced as a person. This could almost take a “literal” and painful meaning if one follows Green’s understanding of “personality and meaning.” According to Green, what is meant by the embodiment of personality is the appropriation of external objects such as they “cease to be external” to the appropriator and “become a sort of extension of the man’s organs, the constant apparatus through which he gives

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reality to his ideas and wishes.” In this sense, inalienability is in fact contradictory to the theory.123 The market problem, moreover, resurrects the contraposition between utilitarianism and “property for personhood” theories that we tried to surpass and solve before.124 In that sense, one might argue that the existence of a robust market in avatars, through which thousands of virtual characters are sold and bough everyday, counteracts any argumentative attempt to sustain the application of Radin’s theory to avatars. Nevertheless, we believe there is a way to circumvent this obstacle, surpassing this problem and re-asserting Radin’s theory in the universe of avatars.

Two reasons sustain our argument. Firstly, and as already referred, the application of Radin’s thesis to avatars is intended to be exceptional and residual, being only applied in cases where these virtual characters effectively qualify as “personal property”, that is, as property that is intimately linked to one’s personality. In this sense, the majority of avatars will probably not qualify as “property for personhood,” and Radin’s theory will pose no problems to the blooming market for avatars, as they will be considered fungible property and, as such, susceptible to be exchanged in the market. Having substantially reduced the overall population of avatars existing in virtual worlds, we are still left with the “critical” ones, the avatars that do qualify as personal property. Such virtual characters, as integral part of the user’s identity, might present a serious problem for the functioning of the market if one reads Radin’s thesis as forbidding the alienability of this kind of property. Nevertheless, the answer to such hypothetical criticism (and here we introduce our second reason) is simple: Radin’s theory is constructed and articulated in a way that does not prevent or prohibit the alienability of property. If it did so, the theory would be unsustainably rigid.

Taking a more attentive look at the theory of property in personhood, Radin distinguishes between personal and fungible properties, referring to the former as property that a person uses in her self-construction and self-identification, while describing the latter as property that is interchangeable with any other. As such, given the personal property definition, one can infer that the latter is not interchangeable, as it would not be consistent with the thesis to have property that is concomitantly personal, that is fundamental (and irreplaceable) for the constitution of the proprietor as a person, and fungible, that is transferable. Moreover, such proposition can be inferred a contrario from the division and definition of property categories into personal and fungible. As such, one could argue that if personal and fungible properties are opposites and if the latter is interchangeable; then, a contrario, the former (personal property) would not be interchangeable. However, there is an extremely important element that should be taken into account. According to Radin’s model, property rights are inserted in a continuum with two endpoints, the personal and the fungible. According to this model, and as we have already analysed, the closer the objects are to the personal end of the continuum the stronger the respective property entitlement will be. In other words, “the personhood perspective generates a hierarchy 123

TH Green, Lectures on the principles of political obligation in P Harris and J Morrow (eds), Thomas Hill Green, Lectures on the pinciples of political obligation and other writings (London: Longman, Greens & Co, 1931), section N at 165 (quoted in Spence, p.50).

124 Regarding the utilitarianism versus the property for personhood debate, and as observed by Davies and Naffine (2001), “[o]ne of Radin’s goal has been to develop a way of thinking about property which does not permit the commodification of persons as the property of others, and hence to counteract what she and others perceive as a tendency towards universal commodification, especially within the law and economics school of thought” (p.7). As such, a prime target of Radin’s criticism is Richard Posner, a prominent scholar of utilitarianism and welfare economics. In this sense, and as cited by Davies and Naffine, see his “Sex and reason (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1992), for an attempt to analyse sex and sexuality in economic terms.

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of entitlements”, as “those rights near one end of the continuum – fungible property rights – can be overridden in some cases in which those near the other – personal property rights – cannot be” (Radin, 1993, p.53).125 In this context, what is important to note is that objects are not “inserted” in such continuum in a static and fixed manner, but in a dynamic way, being able to change positions, shifting from one end of the continuum to the other. In other words, this means that a person can decide whether a given object amounts, to her, as personal property (giving rise, as such, to a stronger property entitlement) or not; or if a given object no longer qualifies as property for personhood, shifting the latter from personhood to fungibility. In this way, it is correct to say that personal property, within Radin’s theoretical construction, is inalienable (given the importance and relevance of the property to the self-constitution and identification of the proprietor as a person, it would not make any sense that such person would be willing to alienate it). As such, the inalienability of personal property derives from the logic and consistency of the theory itself: the argument in favour of a right to a property for personhood entails a stronger entitlement protection of that right, implying thus its inalienability.

Nevertheless, and this is the crucial point, personal property can be “relegated” to the status of fungible property (changing its position along the continuum), becoming thus alienable.

Fungibility then presupposes alienability, things which have become property are alienable simply by withdrawing one’s will (such reasoning, as we will see, derives from Hegel’s property theory). In sum, personal property is not, per se, alienable (in the sense that the proprietor will not be willing to lose it); but, as such kind of property is susceptible of being “downgraded” to fungible property, (the former) personal property then becomes alienable.

The alienability of property, namely the shift from property strongly associated with our sense of self to the fungible kind, is associated with the volatility and dynamism of the human mind. We - as persons-, for a myriad of different reasons and circumstances, are constantly changing our minds, attitudes and perceptions throughout our lives. And with us, also the meaning, perceptions and values that we attach to resources in the external environment change.

Let’s imagine Radin’s paradigm example of personal property: the wedding ring. While the ring for a happily married woman can have an incalculable personal and emotional value, as the symbol of the love and union of her successful marriage; the very same ring can become fungible (losing the personal value and maintaining only the market price) if the same woman gets divorced after finding out that her husband had been unfaithful during all those years of marriage. The opposite case (from fungible to personal) is also conceivable, as Radin (1993) explicitly asserts: “conversely, the same item can change from fungible to personal over time without changing hands (p.54). We are thus dynamic individuals in a permanent change, continuously re-constructing our individuality and re-identifying ourselves with different external objects and resources.

Furthermore, a final supportive argument for the alienability of property can be found in Hegel’s Personality theory126 (from which Radin’s theory derived). According to Hegel, property 125 As we shall see later on, this idea of stronger and weaker property entitlements (in terms of their relationship to personhood) will be very important in the dispute resolution over property rights between users and game owners.

126 Within the framework of Hegel’s personality theory, Lastowka and Hunter are also in favour of the alienability of property, stating that: “[t]he cynic might argue that the identification of the human with the avatar would mean that there are significant limitations on the alienability of the property justified by this theoretical position. However, just as we assume alienability for wedding rings, or even non-essential body parts, the personality theory provides few limitations on the alienability of the avatar. As the Restatement of Property notes: “Property interests are, in general, alienable. If a particular property interest is not alienable, this result must be due to some policy against the alienability of such an interest. The policy of the law has been, in general, in favor of a

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is only property insofar as it is occupied by a person’s will. Based on such premise, “the object, which starts as a mere thing, having no end-in-itself, becomes invested with the will and spirit of the appropriator. As long as the person’s will remains in the object, it is property. When abandoned, it returns to its former state of meaninglessness” (Davies & Naffine, 2001, p.5). In this sense, and as property is the embodiment of personality, “Hegel’s property theory is an occupancy theory; the owner’s will must be present in the object” (Radin, 1993, p.45). Hence, there is no permanent and irrevocable property entitlement over any given object; to maintain a property relationship between a person and any particular external thing, continuous occupation is necessary. In this way, “[a]s the autonomous will to possess comes and goes over time, so property must come and go” (Radin, 1993, p.46). Moreover, Radin’s theory, interpreted as such, serves to protect the interest of the proprietor in keeping the object for herself and away from others, and not to prevent the proprietor from alienating it, if he or she so decides.

The same reasoning can be applied to the avatars, as their status of property for personhood can be “downgraded” to fungible property according to the user’s will. A given property will only be relevant for our self-construction and self-identification process with the external world if our will agrees as such. In this way, our processes of re-construction and reidentification are not linear and predictable; they continuously change and evolve (as the wedding ring “episode” demonstrates), and, with them, the bonds between property and personality. In that sense, personal property for personhood – through its metamorphosis into fungible property - should be held alienable and compatible with the trade dynamics of market.

As a result, we have re-established the balance between the utilitarian and the property for personhood theories, finding no unsurpassable contradictions in their contemporaneous and complementary application.

In sum, and coming back to the “mirror” problem, we propose as a solution the recognition of virtual property rights to users over their avatars. Such rights should be based upon Radin’s theory of property for personhood, and applied on a case-by-case basis. In that sense, we argue in favour of the recognition of a right to property for personhood (in the sense proposed by Margaret Jane Radin’s property theory) in certain relationships established between the user and the avatar. This right is grounded upon the personal attachment and the process of self-identification developed by the users and projected in their avatars. As such attachment and identity connection will not always be established, Radin’s property for personhood should be taken as a residual and exceptional theoretical justification for virtual property rights, being only put forward if the user has effectively established such personal attachments and identity bonds with the avatar. Furthermore, the application of the theory of property for personhood in combination with the utilitarian underlying justification for virtual rights has been argued not to be conflictive, but (on the contrary) complementary.127

high degree of alienability of property interests. This policy arises from a belief that the social interest is promoted by the greater utilization of the subject matter of property resulting from the freedom of alienation of interests in it.”

(Restatement of Property paragraph 489 cmt. a (1944).

It is not obvious what policy one could formulate to justify inalienability of the property in avatars” (2004, p. 65-66) 127 In this perspective, while the justification for virtual property rights on the grounds of Radin’s theory relates to the intimate link between the appropriated object and the user’s identity and personality, the utilitarian theory deals with incentives to artists, through the grants of property rights over their creations, in order to stimulate further creative production and, as such, to benefit the society as a whole. In addition, and as claimed before, one theory does not eliminate the other. In this way, while user A can be entitled to the ownership over her avatar because of the utilitarian reasoning of stimulating creativity and production in benefit of the overall society), user B can be

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D. Merits and Suitability of the Theory By stressing the strong nexus that a subject can create and establish with certain objects (to the point of blurring the difference between both of them), and by emphasizing the selfidentification of the human person through objects128 as the justification for property rights, Radin’s theory of property for personhood, despite its many criticisms,129 portrays with marvellous accuracy certain relationships between users and avatars. In this sense, Radin’s thesis seems to fits like a glove in the domain of virtual worlds and avatars.

The advantages of transposing this theory to the virtual world are numerous. To name only a couple, the first reason is that the theory makes no distinction between the accumulation of real world chattels or land and its virtual counterpart. In this sense, what matters is the reflection of the proprietor’s personality in the appropriated object, be it a tangible, intangible or virtual one. In this sense, “to the extent that personality theory justifies private property in land or goods, it justifies property in virtual land or goods” (Lastowka and Hunter, 2004, p.264). As a result, the theory seems to suit itself particularly well in the virtual realm. Secondly, and more importantly, by narrowing down the property for personhood theory to the case of the avatars, such thesis seems to be strongly in favour of granting property rights to the user,130 which constitutes a trend and objective long pursued by the legal academic literature of virtual worlds.

In this sense, the use of Radin’s theory in this particular context should be seen as a further step in that direction.

The subjective element present in Radin’s theory is, in my view, fundamental in the analysis of the nexus between the human and the avatar. The personhood perspective conveyed

by Radin emphasizes the subjective nature of the relationships between person and thing.

Although the (monetary) incentive to create avatars stipulated in accordance with Bentham’s utilitarian view (especially appropriate for those players that use the virtual worlds as a way to make a living), and the Lockean’s time, skills and labour invested in avatars can both partially explain the issue of property over avatars, neither of these theories focus on the player, the person holding the property. In this sense, the personhood theory conveyed by Radin is an important addition to the discourse of property rights in virtual worlds, as it “focus on the person…on an internal quality in the holder or a subjective relationship between the holder and the thing, and not on the objective arrangements surrounding production of the thing.” (Radin, 1993, p. 54)

attributed with the ownership over her avatar because of the personal attachment and process of self identification the former has developed with the latter. Finally, user C can be granted with virtual property rights over her avatar on both (utilitarian and property for personhood) grounds. In such cases, there would be no contradiction in terms, but complementariness.

128 In this context, and when applied to the user-avatar relationship, Radin’s theory presents the advantage of supporting the view that personal identity is derived from the relationships with objects.128 By arguing, as Radin does, that “the self becomes an object, because it finds itself in the external world of objects” (Davies & Naffine, 2001 p.7), and by picturing this object as the avatar, one can contend that the users find themselves in the external environment, in this case in virtual worlds, namely in their avatars.

129 For a criticism of the Radin’s theory of Property for Personhood, see Stephen J. Schnably, “Property and Pragmatism: A critique of Radin’s theory of property and personhood” (1993) 45 Stanford Law Review 347.

130 Furthermore, by distinguishing between property that is essential to the personhood of the user from property that is not, and by advocating that some avatars qualify as essential property, we find a theoretical argument to justify the ownership of the latter in the hands of the user.

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As a result, Radin’s conception of property captures the essence of the relationship between the player and the avatar. With so many players spending large portions of their lives with the avatars as their digital ambassadors, players become emotionally attached to these characters, perceiving the avatar as extensions of themselves and blurring the distinction between what is real and what is virtual. In virtual worlds, “where the psychological aspects of relating are magnified because the physical aspects are (mostly) removed,”131 negative actions perpetrated on avatars, such as mugging or raping,132 bring about real emotions and feelings (such as anger, fear or grief) on the players behind those avatars. Some of these players even commit real-word actions in response to virtual world events, including violence133 and suicide.134 Thus, eventual injuries caused to the virtual alter-ego sometimes leaks over to the physical world, affecting the “flesh and blood” users. This repercussion of digital actions into the analog world, and the spilling out of effects produced in the virtual sphere to the physical one, demonstrates how users project a sense of one’s self into an avatar,135 and how – in fact – the boundaries between the subject and the object become sometimes irremediably blurred.

All of these emotions, feelings and actions arising from virtual worlds can only be explained through the perception of the avatar as representation, reflex and continuation of our own personality and personhood in those digital environments. Furthermore, the social networks established within virtual worlds and the development of complex virtual communities through these avatars is due to the perception of the latter as the human extension of the player. In sum, Radin’s theory captures the personal attachment users develop with their avatars, recognizing such characters not merely as property interests, but as personal and intimate connections to one’s sense of self. Furthermore, such theoretical perspective reinforces the confluence of property and personality on the figure of the avatar, a key feature of this character.

As a result, by arguing in favour of the recognition of the avatars as user’s personal property (that is, as “property for personhood” in Radin’s scheme) we are also advocating in favour of a stronger legal protection to the users’ ownership of such characters within the general property rights controversy opposing users and game owners (described and explained in Part III of the essay). Viewed in these terms, one could argue that, if – in a certain case - the avatars are considered personal property for the user and fungible property for the game owner, then the interest of the former should prevail: the property entitlement should be given to the user and not to the game owner.136 Such dispute resolution purpose is, moreover, one of the explicitly admitted functions of Radin’s theory of property for personhood, which sets to explore “how the 131

Regina Lynn, R., Virtual rape is traumatic, but is it a crime? Retrieved April 5, 2007 from http://www.wired.com/culture/lifestyle/commentary/sexdrive/2007/05/sexdrive_0504 132 Ibid. See also Dibbell (1998), pp. 11-30.

133 Levander, M., Where does fantasy end?

Retrieved September 12, 2008 from http://www.time.com/time/interactive/entertainment/gangs_np.html (discussing off-line player killing, or fantasy game disputes spilling over into real-world violence between gang factions in Korea); Online gamer killed for selling cyber sword, ABC News Online, Mar. 30, 2005 (reporting on a Chinese man who stabbed a man to death after the victim stole his virtual sword).

Retrieved September 12, 2008 from http://www.abc.net.au/news/newsitems/200503/s1334618.htm 134 See Addicted: suicide over EverQuest?, CBSNEWS.COM, Oct. 18, 2002. Retrieved September 12, 2008 from http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2002/10/17/48hours/main525965.shtml (reporting on the suicide of a Wisconsin man who may have been addicted to EverQuest); Patrizo, A., Did game play role in suicide?, WIRED NEWS, Apr. 3, 2002. Retrieved September 12, 2008 from http://www.wired.com/news/games/0,2101,51490,00.html 135 In this context, there are even cases of users who identified more with their online persona than their real one.

136 In this respect we obviously assume that the avatar is not likely to be bound up with the personhood of the virtual world owner (which will probably be a large and multinational company)

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personhood perspective can help decide specific disputes between rival claimants” (Radin, 1993, p.36). Radin’s theory, by articulating a hierarchy of stronger and weaker property entitlements in terms of their relationship to personhood (through the image of a continuum from fungible to personal), is particularly suitable to resolve virtual world disputes over property rights. Hence, and viewing this dispute resolution rather simplistically, one could resolve the dispute by ascertaining where to place the avatar within the users’ continuum line (limited by the fungible and personal extremes), if closer to the personhood end point, property rights over the avatar would be granted to the user. Insofar as we are able to determine that a given right is personal (according to Radin’s reasoning), we can thus argue that that right should be protected against game owner’s illegitimate and abusive claims over the avatars.137 In other words, Radin’s theory provides a supportive argument for the users’ ownership of avatars and a possible solution for a property rights dispute against the game owner. Such understanding is based upon the conceptualization of the avatar as personal property, which (as we have seen) gives rise to a stronger moral claim and merits greater legal protection than other property.

Conclusion We are in the age of participatory media, where new forms of interaction and higher levels of involvement and participation achieve increasing importance. In this age, the traditional boundaries between consumer and author, creator and audience, and designer and player are beginning to blur and to fade. Within this context, Virtual Worlds emerge as context for creation, enabling the creativity of the player and figuring as an outstanding example of this new collaborative environment, allowing for users to undertake a digital alter-ego and become artists, creators and authors. Nevertheless, such digital egos are not merely creations, but a reflex of their creators, an extension of their personalities and indicia of their identities. This hybrid position between property and personality of the avatar was the main target of our analysis.

Focussing, firstly, upon the controversial issue of property ownership opposing game owners and users, this paper has attempted to re-balance the positions of those actors by drawing the attention to the need of re-interpreting copyright law according to its underlying utilitarian principles. The proposition of the image of a jigsaw puzzle helped to shed some light on the correct and fair application of copyright to avatars within such utilitarian reasoning. The metaphor also contributed to analyse the nature of the contribution of the user to the game, providing a tool to ascertain if such contribution could merit intellectual property protection attributed to users. Finally, the jigsaw puzzle idea has also cleared the boundaries, showing the limits of utilitarian IP in capturing the personality dimension involved in the relationship between users and avatars. The “mirror problem” demonstrated that the utilitarian perspective pending over IP law does not traditionally account for the emotional and intimate value of the object of property, disregarding in general the psychological attachment that the human user builds upon certain things.

Having acknowledged such “flaw”, the paper then proceeded to a property law theoretical construction that could fill such lacunae, delving into Radin’s Property for Personhood Theory. In this regard, by combining property for personhood theory with the 137

Such claims could be refuted even if supported by the already mentioned EULAs. Moreover, as already mentioned (supra ft.90), the EULAs’ validity and enforceability can be challenged in light of the Constitutional principles shaping the intellectual property law regime.

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utilitarian one, the paper has also argued in favour of a more “ecumenical” view in the articulation of the different property theories, refuting the generalized prejudice of perceiving them as rival and incompatible perspectives. This paper, thus, aimed at shedding some light at the legal analysis of avatars as intersection points between property and personality, “as online gamers feel a sense of identity with elements of the game and those game elements therefore become a symbol for explaining or valuing that identity (Garlick, 2005, p.461). In this account, and as we have seen in this article, not only arguments related with the investment of time, skill and money from the users can justify their claims of ownership and property rights over their fellow avatars. The emotional attachment towards their characters and their perception as extensions of the users themselves in the virtual space, acting as projections and symbols of their identity and personality, can also constitute a fair claim supporting user’s ownership over avatars.

In this sense, Radin’s theory, besides providing a supportive argument in favour of the user’s ownership of avatars, can also play a fundamental role in deciding specific property rights disputes between rival claimants, that is between the game owners and the users within the virtual world context. Viewing avatars as “personal property” could probably influence courts and legislatures to grant users with property rights over such characters. In forthcoming disputes in this domain, it is thus imperative that courts take into account the personhood perspective in property interests, weighing the relevance of the connection between property and personality in formulating their legal decisions. The idea, nevertheless, is not to claim that personality is always and inevitably a relationship to property, but to argue that in the case of avatars, within determined conditions and specific circumstances, there is in fact an inextricable link between property and personality which justifies a different view of property rights in virtual worlds.

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Steinkuehler, C. (2006). The mangle of play. Games and Culture, Vol. 1, No. 3, pp. 199-213.

Stephens, M. (2002). Sales of in-game assets: an illustration of the continuing failure of intellectual property law to protect digital content creators. Texas Law Review, Vol. 80, p.1513.

Stephenson, N. (1993). Snow crash. London: Roc. Vinge, V. (1984). True names: Bluejay Bks. Warren, S., Brandeis, L. (1890). The right to privacy 4 Harvard Law Review, Vol. 4, p.193.

Yee, N., Bailenson, J.N., Urbanek, M., Chang, F., Merget, D. (2007). The unbearable likeness of being digital: the persistence of nonverbal social norms in online virtual environments. The Journal of CyberPsychology and Behavior. February 2007, pp.115-121.

Yoon, Ung-gi (2005). "A quest for the legal identity of MMORPGs - from a computer game, back to a play association", Journal of Game Industry & Culture, Vol. 10, Fall.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

On the Dark Side: Gothic Play and Performance in a Virtual World By Mikael Johnson, National Consumer Research Centre, Finland; Tanja Sihvonen, University of Turku, Finland

Abstract

This article investigates gothic play and performance in Habbo, a virtual world for children and teenagers. In addition to analyzing the aesthetics of the environment and its player characters, the authors seek to discover how gothic players figure in its appropriation and redevelopment. Countercultural player activities, such as playing goth in Habbo, are often treated as disruption, but we argue that gothic players are in fact rather resourceful and productive members of the community.

Observations of player-generated content, events, rituals, appearance, and group discussions indicate that goth is more than a style – it is also play and performance.

Gothic players are not only consumers, but also content providers who inspire the developers at Sulake, the company behind Habbo. The influence of Habbo goths is evident, as emergent gothic player-created content has repeatedly been incorporated in newer releases of the game platform.

Keywords: goth; gothic; virtual world; subculture; counterculture; play; performance.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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On the Dark Side: Gothic Play and Performance in a Virtual World By Mikael Johnson, National Consumer Research Centre, Finland; Tanja Sihvonen, University of Turku, Finland

The foundations of virtual worlds, especially massively multiplayer online games (MMOGs), may be based on their developers’ intentions, but it is clear that the social dynamics present in them are mainly the result of player interactions. To understand what constitutes a virtual world in this cultural or social sense, it is mandatory to investigate what kinds of practices and ideas characterize the social interaction between players. What is also important to consider is how players reproduce their player identity on the internet and how they negotiate and talk about their gameplay habits outside of the game in related discussion boards and wiki pages.

In this study, we concentrate on analyzing the countercultural player activity we conceptualize as “gothic” and the ways the particularly gothic behavior is manifested in online immersive 3D environments. As a specific point of reference we look at the player behavior in Habbo (Sulake, n.d.), which is an open and welcoming game environment and platform for social interaction for all kinds of players – as long as they play by the rather strict rules. Since Habbo is a virtual world for children and teenagers – 90 percent of the players are between 13 and 18 years of age – it is subject to notable monitoring and moderation from the part of the players’ parents as well as of the developer company, Sulake. All activities referring to violence or sex, even implicitly, are prohibited.

Despite the parental concerns and far-reaching monitoring mechanisms, “goth” is played out in various ways also in Habbo. Gothic themes, such as the utilization of morbid aesthetics in the creation of game character habitats, seem to be fairly widespread in this online environment.

It can be suggested that presenting one’s avatar or room as gothic in Habbo is a countercultural activity as it is not always in accord with developer intentions; with that said, it has to be pointed out that gothic play can be done in diverse or inconsistent ways. Gothic themes in the context of Habbo range from experimental and ironic performance to the player contemplation of deep identity issues.

What are the ways gothic is manifested, then, and how do gothic players figure in the development and appropriation of virtual worlds such as Habbo? Our starting point is to illuminate the diversity of gameplay practices and their importance by concentrating on the gothic subcultural style of play and performance. Before delving into the analysis of gothic behavior and performance in virtual worlds, however, we will provide an overview of the research context of virtual worlds to which this text seeks to contribute.

Contextualizing Player Behavior Habbo is a virtual environment where children and teenagers meet, socialize, and play many types of games. It was first launched in August 2000 in Finland as Hotelli Kultakala (“Hotel Goldfish”) and it was based on the developers’ two earlier online services. At the time of writing, there are Habbo hotels in thirty-three countries, and 11.5 million players visit Habbo each month (Sulake, n.d.). Instead of an entrance or a monthly fee, the profit model is based on 4

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research – On the Dark Side 5

micro-payments in the hotel. Virtual furniture, mini-games, and membership in the Habbo club are bought with Habbo credits. These credits can be purchased (depending on the country) with pre-paid cards, bank transactions, credit cards, or special text messages that add a specified amount of money to the customer’s mobile phone bill.

The social interaction in Habbo is multifarious. In the design of Habbo, clear winning conditions and gameplay rules have been avoided, and instead, players are encouraged to create their own objectives beyond chatting, room decoration, and meeting friends. The provided environment for these activities is a hotel consisting of public and private rooms, where the virtual hotel visitors, called Habbos, chat, buy virtual furniture, decorate rooms, play minigames, and arrange social events. Most of the teenage players log on after school, and according to Sulake, the developer company, on average they spend around forty-five minutes per day in the hotel or on its related discussion forums.

Even though Habbo is an open virtual world with built-in social networking tools (Messinger, Stroulia, & Lyons, 2008), it has very active player forums outside of the gameworld.

Habbos, the game characters, can be thought of as avatars mainly because they can be used also in role-play. What is notable in the player behavior in and around Habbo is the players’ own creation: the players design their characters and their individual rooms, but they also use the available means to organize social and game events often on a specific theme. Sulake has even incorporated specific “Habbo homepages” for each avatar to support player creativity and selfexpression. The player-generated content that we consider in this article includes avatars, virtual objects, and shared virtual spaces.

Concepts like participatory culture, social media, online community, user innovation, player-generated content, and crowdsourcing have recently been applied to describe the changing relations between producers and consumers of online products and services like virtual worlds (Fischer, 2002; Jenkins, 2008; Sotamaa, 2007). Generally, in contrast to non-digital massproduction where consumption decreases the value of a product, “consumption” of virtual worlds increases their value. Gameplay is an activity that often results in something tangible, which can then in turn be transformed into something of value. A max-level avatar or an extremely rare weapon are examples of in-game items that may have monetary value both in the gameworld as well as outside of it on game-related auction sites.

Players are naturally productive members of the gaming community, and they have active roles in all stages of the innovation process. By playing the game the players incorporate game development ideas and practices into the game culture they create and maintain. In the long run, nobody wants to be in an empty virtual world; just by being there, players play a key role in the maintenance of those virtual worlds.1 Players help each other, forming teams and guilds to achieve shared objectives. In addition to these visible roles, some players also carry out other, more subtle experiments and try out different positions in and out of character. Some create auxiliary game-related websites, some act as beta-testers, others develop technical or content

1

On the other hand, it is recognized that solitary play is common among some player groups (Ducheneaut, Nicholas Yee, Nickell, & Moore, 2006). In all game-like virtual worlds, practices like leveling up and “grinding” are often done alone; similarly, preparing for big, public fights or events are usually done outside of the social context of play.

Even in Habbo, it is customary that players tune up their game characters and organize their virtual assets in solitude for the public show-off.

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modifications, and almost all are providers of feedback to the developer company in one way or another.

Virtual worlds emerge as the result of complex processes of negotiation between developers and players from the start of the design process. Developers work with a vision of a good game and fun gameplay, which implicitly shapes future players. Developers consider what the players might do and how they might play. The vision is then realized during game development into particular features. As actual players put the features into use, they appropriate them for their own purposes, and also make up their own, novel ways of using the game (Silverstone & Hirsch, 1992/1994). These creative gameplay processes feed back to the developers, who learn, develop their vision, and adapt the features to suit the emergent use of the game environment. As new features are developed and appropriated, this slowly paced dialog continues between developers and players through the (co-realized) material foundations of the virtual world.

Graphical player-generated content has changed the web user experience and given players new possibilities for online self-expression. The internet itself has changed from having been mostly textual (e.g., multi-user dungeons and newsgroups) towards a more graphical basis that builds either on computer-generated 3D graphics (MMOGs) or photos and other visual material (e.g., social networking sites) (King, 2008). Games-related communication in particular is not only based on chats, social forums, or messaging services, but it also relies on the making and distribution of skins and clothes for game characters, as well as virtual objects and decorations for in-game locations that are usually presented to other players via screenshots.

In addition to the game platform itself we also consider Habbo fansites as relevant research material. Fansites, or player-authored websites and forums, are essential in considering the characteristics of player behavior in the context of virtual worlds. Unlike traditional singleplayer games without any network connection, stand-alone games with internet connectivity make it part and parcel of the game itself for players to show their avatars, skills, and possessions to other players. Besides designer-provided game objectives, the online sharing and trading of these virtual assets has become an activity itself in the context of Habbo. If not possible within the gaming platform, fansites and other third party platforms often provide complementary services to the realms of virtual worlds (Johnson & Toiskallio, 2005).

Many game-themed supporting websites and fansites created by active players have assumed an important role in the maintenance of game cultures. These fansites help players and support gameplay by sharing hints, cheat codes, secret paths, guidelines, stories, and perspectives about what players regard essential. By doing so, the fansites render the player culture around a virtual world visible and material, and they also contribute to the general understanding of the game in an important way. The fansites may also reproduce and reinforce player “career paths” and the legitimization of player groups in specific ways (Sihvonen, 2009).

With their online activities and player-generated content, MMOG fansites often expand and comment on the media content produced by the game developers. The processes of giving feedback and negotiating with the available game contents may present themselves as harmonious and constructive, a win-win situation for both the developers and the players, as they both aim for the common goal of enriching the gameplay experience. However, there are situations where the conflicting interests of these parties unexpectedly surface. Practices like hacking, scamming, and grief play – a playing style where a player intentionally aggravates and

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harasses other players (Foo & Koivisto, 2004) –, as well as specific MMOG phenomena such as mass protests and virtual item trade may seriously undermine the developer-player relations, and thus, the virtual dynamic constantly needs to be addressed by the developer company. Conflict management and governance are much needed also in virtual worlds. One of the important underlying questions in MMOGs is how governance can be organized so that it best supports the expression of different opinions while not suppressing the identity building processes game players engage in (Taylor, 2006).

Gothic play can be interpreted in the context of identity politics, or as adoption of a certain counter- or subcultural position. This usually manifests itself in the stylistic choices the players employ as part of their gameplay. However, playing goth can not simply be considered as grief play, or a countercultural activity in the sense that it would self-evidently disrupt the logic of play originally intended by the game developers. Instead, we see goth more as a subcultural activity, as something that is not necessarily anticipated by the developers or the mainstream player community. Gothic play is rather like toying with the hidden subtext in the layers that make up the cultural product as a whole. At the same time, gothic themes can also be rather effortlessly incorporated as part of general game (re)development taking place through the developer-player dialogue described above. An example of such incorporation is the prevalence of gothic characters, such as the vampire and the werewolf, in the expansion packs of The Sims 2 as the result of players wanting to focus on such themes.

Gothic Themes in Teenagers’ Virtual Playground In the context of studying gothic behavior and aesthetics it is important to define the convoluted terminology. Words like “goth” or “gothic” have different connotations depending on the context of their use and origin. Furthermore, gothic themes have not been present in academic research to the degree that they have in general popular culture, and therefore, the significance of these words is largely associated with themes present in more popular discourse.

In the context of popular culture, the Oxford English Dictionary defines gothic as ”a genre of fiction characterized by suspenseful, sensational plots involving supernatural or macabre elements and often (esp. in early use) having a medieval theme or setting” (2008).

However, at least regarding virtual worlds, this definition lacks the sense of irony and black humor which are often considered important in the appropriation of gothic themes. We argue that a more fruitful approach to gothic would be interpreting it rather in the vein of “harnessing the dark forces in an ironic spirit,” and hereby we follow writers like Gavin Baddeley (2006) and Paul Hodkinson (2002, 2006).

Fantasy and horror are easily applicable, everyday themes in many virtual worlds and game environments; they are present also where one would not expect it. World of Warcraft and Second Life (Gothic Second Life, n.d.) may be obvious candidates for exploring provoking and macabre topics associated with gothic aesthetics, but even Facebook users are regularly bitten by virtual vampires (Vampires, n.d.). Monster-like characters as well as horrifying extra-terrestrial life-forms play an important role in current virtual worlds, but they are especially manifest in environments that are based on a confrontation between good and evil. The introduction of such fearful forces has been a welcomed point of departure and feature in the creation of suspenseful and sensational plots for digital games. Culturally meaningful and multidimensional monsters have the power to fascinate, where as hastily sketched and easily defeated opponents do not.

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However, not all virtual worlds are violent or about monsters. Habbo, for instance, is a cartoon-like virtual world popular among millions of teens, set in a contemporary indoor setting.

Habbo players are encouraged to interact in a non-violent fashion and it is not possible to inflict harm on avatars or break things in Habbo. The only non-player characters are pets – such as cats, dogs, and crocodiles – that live forever and are designed to have a friendly appearance (Habbo UK, n.d.). Even though Habbo is the perfect opposite to violence and horror, goths are encountered in Habbo, which begs two questions. First, how is gothic represented in style – that is, how do players make a cheerful cartoon-like avatar or a room that looks gothic? Second, in addition to this representational dimension, the question of how goth is played out and performed needs to be answered; what does it mean to engage in gothic activities and social performances in this kind of a benevolent virtual world?

As we set out to understand how gothic is manifested in Habbo, a few notes on our methodology are necessary. The material discussed here was gathered online through observations of player-generated content, online behavior, appearance, and discussions. This research is based on fansites and discussion forums, online player and group profiles, online images of avatars, and shared virtual spaces in Habbo (Johnson & Toiskallio, 2007). In addition, our understanding of Habbo draws on developer (N = 10) and player interviews (N = 12), as well as ongoing developer collaboration in a research project (Johnson, 2007). The Habbo player communities are based on localized Habbo sites that exist independently in each of the thirty-two Habbo hotel countries. Each country has a thriving community with bigger and smaller fansites.

Johnson and Toiskallio (2005) found footprints of 173 player-created Finnish Habbo fansites in 2004. The 6,850 threads regarding Habbo fansites in the UK is also a clear sign of an active player community (Habbox Forum, n.d.).

In 2007, the Habbo developer company Sulake extended the virtual game world to include social networking features such as player and group profile web pages, and gradually the fan community landscape started to change. At present, player discussions are prevalent on the sites provided by Sulake. Furthermore, the new Habbo website structure with social networking features, and particularly tags enable searching for players and groups with particular interests, such as “goth.” Habbo players use tags to describe their avatars and groups, but these tags are also interactive. When players click on a tag, the system shows an index of all avatars and groups that use that tag.

Compared to previous research on goths online, such as those conducted by Hodkinson, (2002, 2006), this study focuses more on visual culture than on the structure (central vs. dispersed) of textual discussions. Especially interesting is how the visual culture associated with gothic themes is influenced by the operating logic of the technical platform in question. Not all online games or media are similar, which makes it important to shed light on how the gothic subcultures are manifested in different ways in their specific contexts. The selection and presentation of gothic examples in this article fall into two categories: the players themselves explicitly identify their creations as gothic – in names and descriptions of player characters and hotel rooms – or we discuss specific themes (e.g. death, suffering, monsters) commonly considered as gothic in the context of Habbo.

It is difficult to give an exact estimate of the popularity of a subculture such as “gothic players.” However, thanks to recent developments in the Habbo platform, it is possible to give some quantitative figures. Table 1 contrasts Habbo tags that relate to the gothic subculture (goth, gothic, goths, dark, vampire, death) with tags that relate to mainstream music styles (rock, rap)

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research â&#x20AC;&#x201C; On the Dark Side 9

and phenomena (love, football, emo, cats) as well as a three other subcultural music styles (hiphop, punk, metal). The tags are counted in the US and UK Habbo hotels.

Table 1. Selected Totals of Habbo Tags in US and UK as of September 2008.

tag

habbo.com

love rock football rap emo metal punk cats hiphop goth death vampire dark gothic goths

25149 20483 13302 10016 7027 3768 3336 3243 2710 1559 1124 1080 622 543 50

habbo.uk 1849 1509 2201 236 735 394 249 737 60 226 166 113 74 63 33

This table indicates that the gothic subcultures, defined through the gothic-themed tags in Habbo US and UK, are ten times smaller than the most popular tags. However, the gothic tags outnumber other tags shared by only a handful of avatars. This implies that goths in Habbo are few enough not to be mainstream, but large enough to represent more than a scarce, individual interest. Because the numbers are fairly similar in Habbo US and UK, gothic play does not seem to be a sign of anything particularly national; gothic in this sense is rather a reference to transnational (or translocal) subculture that is possibly global in scope (cf. Global Gothic, n.d.).

To sum up, even though gothic themes may be somewhat underground, they are widely dispersed in the undercurrents of popular culture throughout the Western world.

Understanding the Dark Gothic Core of Popular Culture Traces of gothic themes prevail in popular culture. Gothic has manifested itself in the history of digital games, and especially the role-playing game (RPG) subculture, in numerous ways. The RPG culture has been occupied with gothic thematics, figures, and sceneries to the point of being accused of obsessing over the â&#x20AC;&#x153;dark forces.â&#x20AC;? David Waldron (2005) traces the gothic roots of RPGs to the early 1980s and the Christian moral panic in the US, the objective of which was to ban RPGs through various media campaigns and legal actions. Schools, parents, and Christian associations joined forces in the campaign against games such as Dungeons & Dragons.

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One of the long-lasting effects of this RPG moral panic was the emergence of a stronger need for identity-building among game developers and player groups. Role-players in the 1980s were young enthusiasts, and no ideologies or political agendas per se were associated with the leisure activity. As role-players were attacked in public debate, they had to rise to the challenge by organizing themselves into groups and more clearly defining the nature of their hobby and gameplay activity. These practices gradually aided also the consolidation of the subcultural identities linked with RPGs. Furthermore, according to Waldron, the subcultures that were formed around role-playing were associated with the strengthening of gothic influences in the more general popular culture at the time. Role-players started to connect more tightly with fans of other media products, such as horror, science fiction, and fantasy literature, movies, TV shows, as well as computers and computer networking. Fan cultures around RPGs expanded by incorporating player created fanzines (fan magazines), cons (meetings), and discussion forums. A certain jargon became established, and members could be identified through a certain way of dressing – general characteristics to many other subcultural manifestations, as well.

Nevertheless, the connections among goth, subculturality, and role-playing are not simple and straightforward. Goth is about a certain flexible sensibility, the origins of which can be traced to artistic movements in the English-speaking world in the eighteenth century. This socalled neo-gothic style took inspiration from Europe’s pagan past and created imageries of monsters – the vampire, Frankenstein’s monster, the living dead (zombie), and the werewolf – of which many lived on for centuries (Davenport-Hines, 1998). What is typical to the gothic sensibility is its simultaneous sympathy and antipathy for these monster figures, resulting in complex settings and scenarios. In gothic culture, non-human characters tend to have human characteristics that make us want to identify with them, despite their evil and inhuman origins.

These human traits can simultaneously be both hidden and exaggerated.

According to Gavin Baddeley (2006), gothic is a cultural aesthetic that lives on oppositional, anti-mainstream, and subcultural mentalities. “Performing goth,” however, remains open for interpretation and individual appropriation. Gothic more likely signifies a viewpoint, subversion, and counter-action, or even a lifestyle, than it does a mere aesthetic choice. In the contemporary cultural context, goth signifies a subcultural phenomena that can be first located in the early 1980s Britain. Gothic style incorporated elements from the Romantic and Victorian traditions as well as fantasy, the glorification of the mystical and the supernatural, and marginal ideas and ideologies outside of the mainstream. Gothic music emerged in the aftermaths of punk inspired especially by horror literature and movies (Davenport-Hines, 1998). Many cultural elements were mixed and matched with an attitude that had a hint of irony or camp aesthetics.

Since the early 1980s, a great deal of gothic horror and monster thematic has been applied to games played on different platforms. For instance, the narratives of the two Dracula games that were made for early hand-held gaming devices, were loosely based on Bram Stoker’s classic novel of the vampire count (Imagic from 1983 and Epoch from 1982). The idea of the games is to combat werewolves and vampire bats, enter Dracula’s castle and steal his gold.

Expanding this kind of a simple, widely-known, and easily malleable back story to different game platforms has proven an extraordinarily profitable starting point for game design and development.

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Today, there seems to be an abundance of dark fantasy and horror games: Call of Cthulhu, Gothic3, The Vampire, and Werewolf games from the World of Darkness series are examples of rather mainstream utilization of gothic themes. The aesthetic influences in these games often hark back to movies and other audiovisual culture products. A great deal of the work done by directors such as Tim Burton circle around gothic themes, as films like Edward Scissorhands, The Nightmare Before Christmas, Corpse Bride, and Sleepy Hollow illustrate.

These types of cultural products act as important models and testing grounds for the stylistic choices associated with gothic sensibility, therefore providing a basis for the maintenance of a subculture also visible in the context of a non-violent online game.

How Habbos Are Tweaked Gothic It is typical for subcultures that their ”subculturality,” or means of distinction from mainstream culture, is a process of continuous negotiation. To place oneself in the margin is an active act that constantly needs to be reproduced through various actions and visible symbols.

Gradually these markers may form a style that can be associated with a specific subculture and behavior. Based on these stylistic distinctions, different degrees of membership emerge: ”real” members of the subculture may want to be distinguished from “wannabe” members or the ones who only “flirt” with the margin of the group (Hebdige, 1979/1988).

Figure 1. Gothic Style Avatar (Calliope, n.d.).

Figure 1 show a gothic style avatar from a Finnish fansite discussion (Calliope, n.d.). In the accompanying description of the gothic style, the difference between ”real goths” and ”wannabe goths” is actively reproduced and negotiated. According to these self-proclaimed Habbo specialists, for instance, wannabe goths temporarily try out a white avatar skin shade for fun, where as real goths keep their avatar skin white consistently and continuously. Calliope writes:

“Gothic. In addition to punk, this style is really popular in Habbo, and in real life. White skin and dark clothes guarantee the beauty of the gothic style. But there are also wannabe-goths, who just use gothic clothes in Habbo for fun, if something is really bothering. You recognize a wannabe when you see that they don’t wear the previously mentioned clothes on the day after. Gothic colors are for example black, red, and violet”.

An example of a REAL goth: Wrox (translated by the authors from Finnish to English from Calliope, n.d.).

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Especially in those virtual worlds, where human-like avatars are common, it is typical that avatar subclasses emerge, as do players who distinctively want to play a certain kind of avatar (based, for instance, on their real-life self-identification). References to gothic style in this sense can be found already in the forums of Nerokala – a Finnish community that formed around Habbo in 2002, but later on branded itself as an online youth forum – in discussions about different avatar styles and potential clashes between the player’s normal everyday style and the appearance of her avatar.

Even though gothic player cultures are not extraordinarily vast in Habbo, gothic elements found on the player forums support the subcultural character of playing goth in particular ways.

It can be suggested that gothic in the context of these games is one way of standing out in the crowd and opposing the mainstream player communities, as well as the developers of the game with their rules and monitoring – that is, power – they impose on players.

While many avatars designed for virtual worlds such as Habbo incorporate hegemonic beauty ideals – they are often young and “white” characters with colorful and trendy outfits – there are implicit as well as explicit gothic, horror, and dark fantasy elements present in Habbo character creation. In the design of gothic avatars, existential agony, Weltschmerz, pain, and suffering related to death and love emerge as central topics, often in overtly exaggerated ways and through the use of melodramatic expressions (possibly typical to the teen years). Even though all themes relating to violence are prohibited in Habbo, there are ways to offset this rule.

These subversive practices are visible in the look and feel of many player profiles in the community.

Figure 2. Two Different Gothic Avatars (XXXDominatrix, n.d.; GothicaTheLost, n.d.).

The avatar on the right in Figure 2 displays perhaps the only way of explicit avatar violence possible in Habbo. By positioning a pin on the same spot as the avatar (on the avatar homepage, Habbo Home), it gives the impression that the avatar – or more specifically, this avatar’s heart – is pierced or stuck by a giant pin. This way, even these innocent and non-violent Habbo features can be tweaked to portray suffering.

However, not all Habbo avatars that tag themselves as “goth” follow the dark gothic style. Figure 2 shows also another kind of gothic avatar on the left that is also tagged with “emo” and “punk,” which is an example of using multiple style or group identity markers

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simultaneously. The tags can be interpreted as a sign of overlap between these styles, an individual selection of styles, or a low degree of commitment to any styles in particular. It has been suggested that portraying a style such as goth can be more like a flimsy experiment or a phase rather than an expression of identity, as is detectable in the attached chat posting: “Unlike normal text chats, in Habbo one can be a sexy blond or a blackish goth, even if reality would be far from that. And it is always so sweet, if 94’ers find a habboadventurefriend or something. Oh that youth bliss”. (translated by the authors from Finnish to English from Ferithem, 2005).

Another aspect that undermines the significance of gothic performance in Habbo is the fact that the player can only choose the name, appearance, and gender of his or her avatar, and the aesthetics of the virtual world resemble those of highly abstracted and stylised Lego or Duplo rather than the more generic fantasy-themed MMOGs. This naturally restricts the means of visual expression. In Habbo, being a goth is more likely to be signalled by writing something intriguing and provoking in the one-line avatar description than mere looks.

In the more general gothic subculture, a certain erotic appeal, particularly the kind concentrating on an active woman, or the “femme fatale,” is clearly visible. Men and masculine characters such as vampires are also often eroticized. In the world of Habbo this kind of simple aesthetics-based erotic charging of characters is not possible because the looks of Habbo avatars are more based on the appearances of children or young teens instead of grown-ups. This directs the mind more towards the innocence of youth, from which follows the fact that potential sexual and violent themes are much (and understandably) less prevalent.

Gothic Ambience in Game Space Habbo players can create a room of which the style can be categorized as gothic, and this can be done rather effortlessly by using furniture from the lines such as the “Gothic” or “Halloween.” Along with “Valentine’s Day,” “Easter,” and “Christmas,” Habbo also launched furniture for Halloween in 2002–2003 (Habborator, n.d.). In response to gothic player activities, a Gothic line of furniture was launched in 2007. Figure 3 shows three examples of Halloween furniture (left), and three pieces from the more recent Gothic series (right).

Figure 3. Examples from two lines of gothic furniture in Habbo.

(Habborator, n.d.)

The creation of gothic-themed rooms has been rather popular in Habbo, as there are more rooms with words like “gothic” and “goth” in the title than the fifty rooms that can be displayed in the room search function. Most of the rooms found using general search terms in the room search function, including most rooms named gothic-something, appear as empty or abandoned,

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which indicates that they are more like archaeological relics than actual avatar habitats. Players have been creating gothic items and furnishings in Habbo, and the traces of this activity can be found in the room names and descriptions. Some of these rooms have preserved decorations, even though no avatars are visible. Figure 4 portrays a room made by Cosmo85 called ”Gothic Mansion”:

Figure 4. A Gothic Room in Habbo Finland (cosmo85, n.d.).

This room’s decoration is gothic in many visible ways. The candles, the skulls, the bats, and the red-black-gray background colors with white as contrast give the room a mystical atmosphere. The bed and the red chairs reserved for ”the audience” along the walls, as well as the use of the symbols of love – roses, the heart, and Amor – suggests transcendent rituals.

Tension is in the air as the visitor clicks the post-it note above the door with the heart shape, and a poem pops up. This poem at first sight appears to be about rather straight-forwardly gothic thematics of blood, poison, love, and death; the lyrics of Alice Cooper’s mega-hit Poison (1989) emerge from the words. But the question surfaces: how can this hard rocker be considered gothic in Habbo and not too “old,” mainstream, or too big a star to be approved by real Habbo goths?

The most important influences to contemporary gothic rock music come from the late 1970s post-punk music, where a particular musical style began to play a big role. The pale

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research – On the Dark Side 15

representatives of gothic rock and ”death rock” dressed darkly and created their shows on stage with impressive horror film elements and references. Smoke machines, spider webs, rubber bats and other animal replicas, as well as various edged weapons began to form the cornerstones of the style (Baddeley 2006). For instance, the nightclub show by rock group Bauhaus on the piece ”Bela Lugosi’s Dead” in the vampire movie The Hunger (1983) is a poignant example of this early gothic style.

An important characteristic of the early gothic rock was however the ironic play with horror themes. Bloody stage performances by Black Sabbath, where some ”night creatures” had their heads bitten off, cannot be considered as anything else except a joyfully horrific provocation. Alice Cooper and Poison belong to this second gothic wave from the early 1980s.

In the music video, Alice appears from smoke in the middle of young, half-naked girls with a wicked expression in his eyelined eyes. The Habbo player’s connection between gothic romanticism and Alice Cooper repeats the same ironic vibe that has been very typical to gothic culture, especially in its early stages.

Nevertheless, the question of what constitutes “real” gothic music is still a serious issue (Goodlad & Bibby, 2007), as there have been fierce debates over what counts as credible music styles also in Habbo. For instance, in Finnish advice for goths (Goth 101, n.d.) , it is mentioned that one should despise metal rock because it is not authentically goth, so it is debatable whether the ”Gothic Mansion” room represents any approved gothic Habbo style or not. Actually, the fact that we recognize the lyrics of Alice Cooper’s song is an indication of its slippage into mainstream culture. It also hints that this room might be created with a twinkle in the eye. It is very possible that the room decorator wanted to try out a mystical theme to attract visitors just for chit-chat. This interpretation is supported by the fact that the room creator was one of the Finnish Habbo’s most famous celebrities for several years.

Gothic Behavior and Play in Habbo As we are interested in finding out how goth is being acted out and performed, we can not limit our observation of the gothic style to the surface; we also need to look beyond. Even though gothic aesthetics are distinguishable in virtual worlds, they cannot be reduced to visual style alone. Habbo allows for player-created gothic environments and avatars, but it is still within the limits of the game environment and the imposed rules. What could then be termed as gothic player behavior and performance in virtual worlds such as Habbo? Are there characteristics that prevail in other virtual worlds including built-in “gothic” features, such as causing problems for other avatars (griefing), torture and even the possibility of death?

Dealing with gothic themes and twisting something to represent the gothic sensibility is a way of handling difficult topics, such as violence, disease, and death. By re-enacting gothic rituals, players seem to explore and contemplate their own emotional responses to these issues. There are rooms and groups dealing with both heaven and hell and even death-themed spaces. Figure 5, from player THEBLOWFISH, shows a Habbo version of a funeral parlour, where one player lies on a bed pretending to be dead and another player enacts the role of a bereaved visitor.

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Figure 5. Funeral Parlour in Habbo UK (THEBLOWFISH, 2008).

When comparing the use of gothic aesthetics in Habbo to other online forums, the rather unique characteristic of virtual worlds like Habbo is made visible: since it is a game environment, players can create gothic items, objects, and sceneries for playful interaction. Even though the hotel is situated indoors, the popular Halloween furniture series includes a grave item, from which – when clicked upon – a skeleton emerges. As an example, Figure 6 shows a creative use of the grave furniture item: by putting several items besides each other, an interesting masseffect can be created.

Figure 6. Massive Use of the Grave Furniture Item Showing its Skeleton Animation (UNDROZE4VALO80, 2008).

In general, gothic player behavior in Habbo seems to be of the more benevolent kind.

Like other online forums, Habbo provides opportunities for goths and wannabe-goths to discuss topics such as gothic books, films, music, and style. Even though what is considered gothic is debatable, this debate also takes place in Habbo. Habbo players can create discussion groups to discuss topics close to their hearts. In Habbo UK, there are close to thirty discussion groups that are tagged gothic. Figure 7 shows the tags that are related to the tag “gothic” in Habbo, which gives an idea of what counts as gothic in Habbo. Active Habbos have also created fan groups for gothic musicians and bands like Marilyn Manson, Gothminister, Turmion Kätilöt, Dragonforce, and others.

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Figure 7. Gothic Related Tags in Habbo UK (Habbo UK, 2008).

Gothic Habbos also regularly make gothic versions of the established player activities in Habbo. Typical Habbo activities include sports, contests, TV-show imitations, and so on, as well as boarding schools and mafias. A boarding school imitates a school environment, where the players play teachers and pupils, where as a mafia is a hierarchically strict group with playerinvented ranks and missions. Figure 8 shows an example of a vampire boarding school that, in contrast to most, does not require special school uniforms.

Figure 8. Vampire Boarding School in Habbo UK (megask8tr, 2008).

It can be argued that the core of performing goth consists of role-play. A gothic room interior and avatars representing the gothic style is all that is needed for gothic role play in Habbo. Perhaps the biggest and oldest role-playing subcommunity in Habbo Finland is Enelya (Enelya, 2008). It has been active since 2002, has 1,055 members, and essentially consists of hundreds of player-created rooms. The theme of Enelya is medieval fantasy, and all participating Habbos play a specific race, the specificities of which are made up by the game master and role-players. Figure 9 shows digitally edited screenshots of some of the available races: humans, demons, undeads, mutants, giants, dwarves, and fairies.

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Figure 9. Digitally Edited Screenshots from Habbo Showing Player-created Races in a Player-created Roleplaying Game (Enelya, 2008).

Role-playing a goth also seems to be one way of avoiding annoying pickup lines in chat environments in Habbo. One writer explained how the gothic style communicates “don’t come near me” to other visitors. This strategy might work well; however, for many, Habbo is first and foremost a chat, which renders this “don’t come near me” attitude as strange and unusual.

This topic is discussed on a British fansite2 by Habbo-reporter .:Luna-Lovegood:.. As she entered a gothic room, sat down beside another avatar, and asked ”Hi, how are you?,” the response was ”Go away.” This was repeated as she moved to talk to another group: — Hi how are you?

No reply.

— hello?

Still no reply.

— How are you?

Then one of them said: — Cant you guess, we’re off people (.:Luna-Lovegood:., 2006).

After the experience, .:Luna-Lovegood:. was left wondering why these players were in the chat in the first place. It can be suggested that this is an example of the ways the very basic gothic principles of “anti-behavior” are performed and reproduced: the point of resorting to only talking within a small group of players was to be noticed, to be alone together with like-minded people, and to provoke mainstream players. In this excerpt, Luna seems to represent the mainstream to the gothic players, wondering about “these goths”, who were successful in their subtle provocations.

Conclusions In this article we have analyzed various forms of online gothic style in avatars, virtual objects, and places. Players of MMOGs usually use the available means to achieve the typical goth appearance of pale skin and dark clothes for their avatars. The reproduction and transformation of the gothic style is also rather common in Habbo, although this MMOG is initially designed to support benevolent and playful online behavior.

2

Habbo Paper used to live at http://www.habbopaper.co.uk, but has transformed into a Habbo group on the Habbo website. The article is not online anymore, but traces of .:Luna-Lovegood:.’s “Habbo, a chat site?” of it can be found in the Internet Archive.

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Furthermore, what we discovered is that performing goth online is not just based on a visual style, as it is also a way of playing in Habbo. Being a goth in Habbo can mean different ways of being noticed and being alone together with like-minded players, as well as provoking the more mainstream players. Actively discouraging contact is one such norm-breaker, and another example is the gathering of “off people” players in a room, where everyone sits silently in the chat.

As we established, goths in Habbo play an interesting role in the development of the virtual world, as well as in the maintenance of it as a platform for social interaction. From the player’s point of view, Habbo is a place where gothic players can find the company of other gothic players. The player-created gothic scenery – avatars and rooms in gothic style – provide a fun environment for the interaction. Gothic events, rituals, and groups structure the interaction and enable participation in something bigger than just a conversation. Talking about gothic topics can be fun or ironic for some gothic players, but it is also a way of dealing with personally touching and emotionally charged topics.

What Habbo goths have from the developers’ point of view is a specific role in the innovation process. Goth players provide the kind of content for the virtual world that interests many teenagers and which can be further utilized by the developer company. Some gothic players are consumers – they pay real money for virtual furniture – but there is more to it. For example, gothic players started out by using the “Halloween” furniture line of candles, skulls, and bats for their own purposes. The developers noted the popularity of the “Halloween” line, and in 2007, they incorporated parts of the gothic subculture into the core of Habbo. A gothic line of furniture emerged as a set of its own, which shows the innovative impact of gothic players. Without the content and feedback provided by gothic Habbos, the gothic line of furniture would probably not have been launched by the developers.

These two perspectives on goth subculture in Habbo make an interesting duality. On the one hand, Habbo goths have created a provocative anti-mainstream playing style; on the other hand, the developers have managed to turn it into a business benefit. This incorporation of subcultural activities has not meant the end of playing goth, as early subculture theory by Hebdige (1979/1988) suggests. On the contrary, the gothic subculture is still vibrant. The gothic subculture in Habbo has survived commercialization, which is in line with recent research on the new relationships between gothic subculture and the mainstream (Goodlad & Bibby, 2007).

However, in contrast to previous research where gothic discussion groups and blogs are described, the boundary processes are different in virtual worlds. Hodkinson (2002, 2006) describes these as online places where few outsiders intentionally or accidentally appear. In contrast, Habbo is a virtual dwelling place with meeting points for everyone, which puts the intermingling of goths and non-goths more in the foreground. The chance that gothic players meet non-gothic players is much greater than it is in general discussion groups or blogs.

Gothic play is an interesting challenge for player models of virtual worlds. Research on player motivations typically mentions motivational factors such as achievement, socializing, and exploring/immersion behind player participation online (Yee, 2006). Most goth players would probably score low on these mainstream motivational factors because of their anti-social, but still at many times pacifist, behaviour. Because of goths provoking, but not actively disturbing style, they cannot be described as typical grief players either. Further work is needed to develop player motivation models that incorporate also the anti-mainstream, such as gothic, behaviour.

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It is also worth noting that gothic players in Habbo are neither disruptors nor a kind of grief players. Grief players intentionally disturb other players and disrupt their play patterns.

Sure, some goths in Habbo aim to provoke, but it is not their goal to actively disturb others, as the “off-people” example above illustrated. Neither is gothic just an aesthetic style in Habbo.

Gothic is performance and play, as all the above-discussed gothic examples of the Habbo activities illustrate.

For some players, exploring gothic themes and topics may be a way of experimenting with the “dark side” in a safe environment. For others, it is a way of tackling difficult and emotionally-loaded issues. And for some, the gothic sensibility can provide important mechanisms for self-expression and exploration of the facets of identity. All of these forms of player behavior contribute to the social dynamics and the re(development) processes of the online virtual world itself. Understanding them is key in deciphering how and why virtual worlds such as Habbo function so well in the way they do.

Acknowledgements We wish to thank Sulake Corporation Oy and the Mobile Content Communities research project for enabling this study, as well as Sampsa Hyysalo, Asko Lehmuskallio, Mikko Rask, and Petteri Repo for constructive comments.

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Bibliography Baddeley, G. (2006). Goth chic: A connoisseur's guide to dark culture (2nd ed.). London: Plexus.

Calliope. (n.d.). Pukeutumistyylit. Kriisipalvelu.net. Retrieved January 12, 2009 from http://web.archive.org/web/20060625121937/kriisipalvelu.net/index.php?s=artikkelit/puke utumistyylit&p=php cosmo85. (n.d.). Gothic Mansion, Habbo Room. Retrieved March 22, 2006 from http://www.habbo.fi/ Davenport-Hines, R. (1998). Gothic: Four hundred years of excess, horror, evil and ruin. Fourth Estate.

Ducheneaut, N., Yee, N., Nickell, E., & Moore, R. J. (2006). "Alone together?": Exploring the social dynamics of massively multiplayer online games. In Proceedings of the SIGCHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. MontrĂŠal, Canada: ACM, pp. 407416.

Enelya. (2008). Enelya. Retrieved January 12, 2009 from http://koti.mbnet.fi/evk/ Ferithem. (2005). Habbo Hotel Kultakala [Msg 54]. Message posted to FFfin Foorumit archived at http://foorumit.fffin.com/archive/index.php/t-10549.html Fischer, G. (2002). Beyond Couch Potatoes. First Monday, 7. Retrieved from http://firstmonday.org Foo, C. Y., & Koivisto, E. M. I. (2004). Defining grief play in MMORPGs: player and developer perceptions. In Proceedings of the 2004 ACM SIGCHI nternational Conference on Advances in Computer Entertainment Technology. Singapore: ACM, pp. 245-250.

Global Gothic. (n.d.). Events. CFP: Globalisation and the Gothic. Retrieved January 12, 2009 from http://www.globalgothic.stir.ac.uk/show_event.php?id=8&content=27 Goodlad, L. M. E., & Bibby, M. (2007). Goth: Undead subculture. Durham: Duke University Press.

Goth 101. (n.d.). Goth 101. Retrieved August 31, 2008 from http://www.tribar.net/g101/ Gothic Second Life. (n.d.). Flickr Group. Retrieved January 12, 2009 from http://www.flickr.com/groups/363644@N20/ GothicaTheLost. (n.d.). Habbo home. Retrieved January 12, 2009, from http://www.habbo.com/home/GothicaTheLost

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Habbo Paper. (2006). News, editorials, interviews, competitions and much more! Retrieved January 12, 2009 from http://web.archive.org/web/20060614193708/www.habbopaper.co.uk/articles2.php Habbo UK. (n.d.). Habbo pets. Retrieved January 12, 2009 from http://www.habbo.co.uk/help/2 Habborator. (n.d.). Habbo hotel international furniture charts. Retrieved January 12, 2009 from http://www.habborator.org/furniture/index.html Habbox Forum. (n.d.). Show off your website here - including Habbo fansites (forum thread).

Retrieved January 12, 2009 from http://www.habboxforum.com/forumdisplay.php?s=d757 4da77151c4e53f0cc8cae37acf11&f=45 Hebdige, D. (1979/1988). Subculture: The meaning of style. London: Routledge.

Hodkinson, P. (2002). Goth: Identity, style and subculture, dress, body, culture. Oxford: Berg Publishers.

Hodkinson, P. (2006). Subcultural blogging: Online journals and group involvement among UK goths. In A. Bruns & J. Jacobs (Eds.), Uses of blogs. New York: Peter Lang, pp.187-197.

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Sihvonen, T. (2009). Players unleashed! Modding The Sims and game culture. Forthcoming PhD dissertation, Faculty of Humanities, University of Turku, Finland.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

Editor-in-Chief’s Corner Interconnecting virtual worlds

By Leonel Morgado, Assistant Professor of Computer Science, Department of Engineering, Researcher at the Research Centre in Knowledge Engineering and Decision Support GECAD/UTAD - University of Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro, Portugal.

Abstract The argument is put forward that current virtual worlds find themselves in a situation akin to that of BBS systems in the 1980s and 1990s vis-à-vis the Internet. A reflection from the technical viewpoint on the similarities between Web browsing and virtual world navigation is made and to conclude, the paper will offer a set of requirements for interconnection of virtual worlds and what that may achieve are made.

Keywords: virtual worlds; interconnecting; metaverse.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor-in-Chief’s Corner 4

Interconnecting virtual worlds

By Leonel Morgado, GECAD/UTAD-University of Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro, Portugal

Imagine the world today if there was no import of products whatsoever. If each country not only happened to survive and evolve only with its internal resources, but in fact had no other option but to do so. We would be back in an extremely ancient era, when human populations seldom met each other and mostly thrived or vanished in isolation – if such a situation ever existed, since even in the most primitive times there has been constant flux of ideas, products, and genes.

But in current virtual worlds, this flux is quite limited. It takes place, but in a “stealth” format – people that use more than one virtual world end up spreading, reusing or reinventing ideas across the board, as the various supporting technologies allow them. What if the flux was more similar to the one that occurs in the physical world? If for example, while crossing a border, you kept your identity, persona, and possessions? And why stop at travelers and their possessions? When travelers cross borders, what they find is not a fishbowl environment and completely isolated: whole shipments of products, ideas, and money also cross borders. As we all know, the world and its people – we – are interconnected.

If the Web Were Like Virtual Worlds Making an exercise in imagination, let’s suppose that each web site, running on specific web server technology, was like current virtual worlds. One thing that would change is that I’d have to install a different browser for each server technology, of course. So even clicking on a link would only work within a web site or, at most, within web sites using the same server technology – and even this would include some issues, as I’ll address later. If you were at the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research web site (which runs on Apache 2.0.61) and decided to click the authors login page, at auth.tdl.org (which runs on Apache 2.2.6), you might be able to use the same browser, but the following step, which takes place at www.tdl.org (running on Zope 2.10.5) would require a different browser.

The previous example is what the web is now: different web sites employ different technologies, even within the same organization. And the user simply accesses it all from a single application – the web browser. Obviously, different web browsers have different abilities.

I collected the above server data in the Firefox browser, using the HttpFox plug-in, but I typically use Google’s Chrome browser for regular surfing. If I was a blind user, I could be using a completely different browser, like WebbIE. Even PDA or cell phones have their own versions of browsers. So, not having a single browser and not being able to link between differenttechnology servers, would be a way to imagine the web more like virtual worlds are today.

But browsers are only part of the story. There is plenty running behind the scenes, between web servers and browsers (without the user’s intervention). For instance, when opening a web page, every single element on it (e.g., the text, the style sheet defining the presentation, each image and multimedia element, the icon for the browser’s address bar, and so forth) is a different request that the browser makes – each can be at a different server, and often are. Some

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor-in-Chief’s Corner 5

web servers may restrict access to pictures and some other files for inclusion in external pages, but most do not. This is what allows many web pages to aggregate information, and indeed is often encouraged by web 2.0 sites – for instance, at the web page for each YouTube video, a user is presented with the direct address to the video and even a ready-to-use piece of code for embedding the video in another web page. So, in order to imagine the web more like virtual worlds today, this would have to cease – or only work within same-technology servers.

And even further behind the scenes, plenty takes place between web servers. When one logs in at a web site, the server can check the credentials, but it can also simply forward the login request for validation at another server. There are several remote authentication technologies to make this a reality, and that is what allows one to move between some groups of sites (Google Mail and Google Reader, for instance) without having to re-authenticate. You have to trust those sites to do this, but trust is a human decision – the technology behind today’s web allows this if humans so decide. And the content on a web page does not have to be requested by the browser from different sites: in fact, a web server can itself make that job and provide complex functionality. It can ask an analytics service to store and process visitor’s data, ask a marketing service to provide adverts, mix it with its own content, get links and global menus from another server, and use still further services from other servers, resulting in the web as we see it today, rich and varied, with many suppliers and consumers not only of end-user products, but also of technological services and innovations.

So, imagine it like virtual worlds today. That would mean turning all this off and implementing services once for each server technology. Many services would end up implemented only for one of a few technologies.

Are Virtual Worlds in the BBS Age? Some readers may have never used a Bulleting Board System (BBS) before. Basically, each BBS would be running on a server somewhere, typically providing access to files, discussion forums, mailboxes, and chat (Marx and Virnoche, 1997). Online games were also common. Users would use modems to dial-in the phone number of a specific BBS in order to access its services. In the BBS heyday, during the late 1970s and 1980s and even the early 1990s, a user would dial a BBS number, take part in its activities, then hang up and dial another, where other people, data, and activities could be found. Some commercial services like CompuServe or AOL were permanently available, while others were shoestring operations working on a personal computer at someone’s home, only available to one caller at the time, and only when the system’s operator was not using the line for telephone calls.

It was a fantastic age. Information was previously hard to get, but suddenly, one did not have to run from city to city, from library to library, from shop to shop, to find trivial or not-sotrivial documents or pictures. One did not have to live in a metropolis to have access to a wealth of viewpoints, know-how, or even jobs: all was reachable from a phone line. People were excited and involved, and companies reacted both with their own BBS and with a presence in the most successful commercial providers. It would be common to browse a magazine and find on adverts the name of CompuServe message boards that had been created by companies to provide online support for customers, for instance.

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor-in-Chief’s Corner 6

It was not unlike the way that we often see news in the media about companies developing their own virtual worlds or establishing a presence in Second Life. But, the BBS world was eventually succeeded by the web.

Can We Move on from Virtual Worlds and into the Metaverse?

From the above, we can think of several requirements of interconnection between virtual worlds that could lift them from the BBS age into the web age. I’ll refer to this future age as the age of the Metaverse – not the single, contiguous world from Snow Crash but a plethora of interconnected worlds (Stephenson, 1992).

First, it should be possible for an identity to cross over from world to world. This means that some semblance of the avatar’s name should be retained, even if that means that my own Andabata Mandelbrot in Second Life is only Andabata or External1234-andabatamandelbrot in some other world. And possibly an avatar’s appearance could be defined in layers of complexity, so that some resemblance could be kept, even in quite different server technologies. For instance, perhaps my body shape and size could be lost when crossing from a high-detail world into a lowdetail one, but could it be possible for my avatar’s hair to still be sky blue? And kept barefooted?

Obviously, when the server technology allows it, it should be possible to carry over the entire appearance. I do not mean to say that any of this should be mandatory – just that it should be possible.

Second, it should be possible for the virtual world client software to be somewhat independent of the virtual world. Perhaps this would involve installing “client plug-ins” for different virtual worlds or some other solution, but it definitely would require the development of a standard protocol for virtual world access. This would users to travel between worlds without changing client software and allow a variety of client software to be used for different purposes, like improved accessibility of plain business competition. This already is happening for virtual worlds based on the Second Life / OpenSimulator technology and also for virtual worlds based on OpenCroquet technology. But one cannot cross from an OpenCroquet-based world to Second Life (or vice-versa) without changing client software.

Thirdly, and possibly the most important, virtual world servers should be able to interact with other virtual world servers, so that true metaverse applications and solutions could be developed. For instance, if a user requests support at an automated helpdesk in a virtual world, the system behind that helpdesk should be able to contact a private enterprise virtual world and update a virtual management console. A student should be able to set up a virtual display on a school’s private virtual world and use for that display images, sounds, texts, and virtual objects from public virtual spaces – and link them to their sources. Again, this does not have to be mandatory. Some virtual worlds, mainly games, simply cater for particular needs and have no need or wish to be part of the Metaverse. Other may wish to prevent all external access to its resources – but it should be possible to share if so desired.

Some authors refer to any virtual world as a metaverse. In that sense, each private intraweb is indeed a web – but there’s also the world wide web. Shouldn’t we create the Metaverse?

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor-in-Chief’s Corner 7

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Global Kids (2008). Virtual worlds collaborate to spread Kofi Annan’s message about international justice: Global Kids plays lead role in bringing event to online communities, Global Kids digital media initiative. Retrieved January 16, 2008 from http://www.holymeatballs.org/2008/06/media_virtual_worlds_collabora.html

Hypergrid. (2009). Retrieved January 20, 2009 from http://opensimulator.org/wiki/Hypergrid.

Lentczner, M. (2008). Second Life grid open grid protocol draft 1. Retrieved January 17, 2009 from http://secondlifegrid.net.s3.amazonaws.com/docs/specs/SLGOGP-draft-1.html.

Marx, G. & Virnoche, M. (1997). "Only connect"--E. M. Forster in an age of electronic communication: Computer-mediated association and community networks. Sociological Inquiry 67, pp. 645-650.

Stephenson, N. (1992). Snow crash, New York: Bantam Books.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 â&#x20AC;&#x153;Cultures of Virtual Worldsâ&#x20AC;?

February 2009

Method and the Virtual: Anecdote, Analogy, Culture

By Tom Boellstorff, University of California This is a brief essay, we call "think-pieces", designed to stimulate a discussion on a particular topic. For this series of essays we propose the following question: "In thinking about the spaces of virtual worlds, and the practices we witness within them, how can we define what counts as culture? Can we see any common cultural trends emerging in different virtual worlds, or are practices as disparate as the worlds and groups we find within them?"

Abstract The question of what counts as culture in the spaces of virtual worlds has emerged as a compelling topic for research and will likely remain so into the foreseeable future. This is a question not just of theory but also of method. In this formative period for an emerging research community on culture in virtual worlds, it is crucial to foster a wide range of approaches and to challenge forms of methodological partisanship that assert the superiority of any one approach.

Keywords: culture; virtual worlds; quantitative methods; qualitative methods; ethnography.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research -Method and the Virtual 4

Method and the Virtual: Anecdote, Analogy, Culture

By Tom Boellstorff, University of California The question of what counts as culture in the spaces of virtual worlds has emerged as a compelling topic for research and will likely remain so into the foreseeable future. It seems clear that we will continue to discover a range of subcultures or localized cultures, both within and between virtual worlds. We will also continue to discover broader cultural logics that span multiple virtual worlds, regarding everything from friendship as a dominant mode of sociality to avatar embodiment. Such cultural logics will be more abstract—in the sense that they will be shaped by the more localized contexts in which they are instantiated—but they will nonetheless certainly be significant and worthy of study.

I base this broad outline upon my knowledge of the existing scholarship on culture in virtual worlds from a wide range of quantitative and qualitative approaches, as well as my ethnographic research in Second Life (Boellstorff, 2008). Crucially, it is not unique to virtual worlds. For instance, it squares with my research in Indonesia, where I have shown that notions of being “gay” are informed by globalizing conceptions of homosexuality and also by nationallyand locally-specific cultures (Boellstorff, 2005 and 2007). Because research on culture in virtual worlds is relatively new (though with a longer history than often acknowledged), it is vital to broaden the conversation to include how culture in virtual worlds shares features with offline cultures, including cases where no explicit linkage exists.

Broadening the conversation includes addressing longstanding debates over the culture concept, debates to which work in virtual worlds can already contribute. The culture concept has been a key point of discussion for over 100 years. Culture has been construed in “functionalist” terms, as a tool for fulfilling needs, as a “structuralist” grammar of concepts shaping cognition, and in many other ways. These and other definitions of culture have come into fashion or been set aside, but what we now find is a range of understandings as to what culture might be. These understandings sometimes conflict but often, each provides synergistic insight into a larger problem.

From these various definitions of culture, one insight I find helpful is the recognition that culture is not simply the aggregate of individual personalities and dispositions. Just as German is not simply in the heads of individual German speakers (none know every word in the language), so culture more generally is a transindividual phenomenon that shapes and is shaped by those who participate in it in some fashion. Culture is not just what people do; it is also what they claim it is they do, what they believe, and the patterned yet contingent ways that social action is constituted in the context of such narrative and belief. All domains of sociality and selfhood— from gender to economics, religion to play, love to health—are emergent products of meaningful, intersectional experience. The eminent anthropologist Marilyn Strathern (1992) sums this up by noting that “culture consists in the way analogies are drawn between things, in the way certain thoughts are used to think others” (p. 33).

These debates over what counts as culture in virtual worlds are simultaneously debates over what counts as method for studying culture in virtual worlds. We are in a formative period for this emerging research community: it is imperative that we develop diverse methodological

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paradigms for it. For instance, in my work on HIV/AIDS in Indonesia, I am accustomed to engaging with a range of qualitative and quantitative research (Boellstorff, 2009). Most HIV/AIDS researchers specialize in a particular method, but in conversation we gain a greater understanding of the cultural issues at hand. My work as editor-in-chief of American Anthropologist, the journal of the American Anthropological Association, has impressed upon me how most anthropologists participate in similarly diverse conversations.

Given this background, I have been disappointed to encounter, upon occasion, a methodological partisanship contenting that quantitative methods are the only scientific or rigorous approaches for studying culture in virtual worlds. One way this partisanship manifests itself is via the claim that qualitative methods are “anecdotal.” This profoundly mischaracterizes ethnographic research and fails to consider how quantitative methods using behavioral data and surveys are themselves “anecdotal” (not least because of the term’s etymological meaning of “not yet published”), distillations of complex and meaningful issues not always fully present to consciousness.

To concretize my concerns, it will prove helpful to consider the example of some recent work of the economist Edward Castronova, whose influential research I often cite with great approval in my own. In his article “On the Research Value of Large Games: Natural Experiments in Norrath and Camelot,” Castronova (2006) draws upon large datasets from two online games on develop fascinating insights about interpersonal coordination. Castronova rightly sees in this approach possibilities that have “never before existed in the long history of social thinking” and are “of incredible power and value” (p. 183).

As the title of his article indicates, Castronova explains this power and value by asserting that online games allow us to conduct “natural experiments,” explaining that, “Until now, it has not been possible to take all of society as a research object; such a thing is too big to fit in a lab . . . Now however [. . .] it is indeed possible to replicate entire societies and allow them to operate in parallel” (p. 163). Online games (and by extension, virtual worlds more generally) can thus represent: [T]he social science equivalent of a petri dish, or a supercollider: an expensive machine that provides the only way to directly study certain interesting atomic phenomena. If you want to study the properties of atoms as they bang together, you must either do it indirectly or build a big machine that can bang atoms together under controlled conditions (Castronova, 2006, pp.170171).

Unfortunately, Castronova predicates this claim of methodological value on methodological partisanship. Contrasting his method “with the methods currently available to social scientists” means, among other things, that “the results are not based on the researcher’s impression after having spent 12 months living with a small subset of one of the populations” (Castronova, 2006, p. 184). He then states that “it should be apparent from the tone” of his argument that he feels his “mode of study is at least as reliable, and quite probably more so, than those that precede it . . . That being the case, a major realignment of social science research methods would seem to be in order” (p. 184).

Tone, indeed! It is extremely important that we interrupt such utterly unnecessary methodological partisanship, which is furthermore at odds with Castronova’s earlier work

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(Castronova, 2005). That work typically had a recognizably ethnographic component: at the very least, it did not falsely reduce ethnographic research to the gathering of “impressions.” Nor did it construe its methodological palette in a zero-sum fashion, placing methods on a timeline such that one method can “precede” another. Yet, this placing of differing methods on a timeline is wholly consonant with the implicit narrative of progress that structures Castronova’s partisanship. Given Castronova’s claim to methodological superiority, while asserting that he is discussing culture, it is instructive to recall Strathern’s insight that “culture consists in the way analogies are drawn between things, in the way certain thoughts are used to think others.”

How does culture, to which Castronova claims privileged access, shape his own claims?

These claims are founded in an analogy between natural and social science, such that petri dishes, supercolliders, labs, and nature itself structure the analysis. This is not a colorful or superfluous metaphor: it is absolutely foundational to the theorization, reflecting the well-known significance of analogy and metaphor to cognition (Lakoff and Johnson, 1980). This metaphor, like any, can stimulate insight but also occlude investigation. For instance, the construal of persons as bacteria in a petri dish or atoms in a supercollider masks how, as noted earlier, culture is not simply the aggregate of individual personalities and dispositions that, in Castronova’s analogy, “bang together” and can be understood through “direct observation.” To extend this very metaphor, as anthropologists have done since the early twentieth century, consider that just as direct observation of hydrogen and oxygen will tell you little about the properties of water, so not all aspects of culture can be understood by looking at individuals “atomistically.” This metaphor also absolves the researcher from asking questions of meaning: what does “coordination” mean to these players? Do they think in terms of “coordination” at all in these contexts? Not all researchers need ask questions of meaning, of course, but they are far from irrelevant. It is therefore useful to place Castronova’s work here in conversation with other work on equal footing, rather than in terms of precedent and antecedent.

The rhetorical slight-of-hand performed by this analogy between nature and culture is known as positivism, and its critique is so well rehearsed that I need not recount it here. The irony is that despite Castronova’s methodological partisanship in this particular article, the research itself is valuable and this value need not hinge upon denigrating other methods. There is no reason why what Castronova terms “direct observation” must conflict with the “participant observation” of the ethnographer, or with the methods of experimenters, historians, and philosophers toward which he is equally dismissive (Castronova, 2006, p. 184). They can all provide synergistic insight into a larger problem. Counting is a method, but it is not the only thing that counts as method.

It is, I believe, most productive to interpret Castronova’s “tone” diagnostically, as exemplifying the dangers of methodological partisanship in this formative period of research on culture in virtual worlds. What is needed at this juncture is to broaden the conversation—not constrict it. Placing methods on a unilinear timeline and claiming there must should be a “realignment” that values one method over others that ostensibly “precede” it is more than a claim about research techniques: it is an implicit claim about the object of method. Different methods for researching culture produce different theorizations of culture, and it is vital that we not foreclose our range of understandings as to what culture in virtual worlds might be and might become.

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Bibliography Boellstorff, T. (2009). Nuriâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s testimony: HIV/AIDS in Indonesia and the epidemic of knowledge. American Ethnologist 36.

---------------. (2008). Coming of age in Second Life: An anthropologist explores the virtually human. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

---------------. (2007). A coincidence of desires: Anthropology, queer studies, Indonesia.

Durham: Duke University Press.

---------------. (2005). The gay archipelago: Sexuality and nation in Indonesia.

Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Castronova, E. (2006). On the research value of large games: Natural experiments in Norrath and Camelot. Games and Culture. 1, p. 163â&#x20AC;&#x201C;86.

---------------. (2005). Synthetic worlds: The business and culture of online games.

Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Lakoff, G. & Johnson, M. (1980). Metaphors we live by. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Strathern, M. (1992). Reproducing the future: Anthropology, kinship, and the new reproductive technologies. London: Routledge.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 â&#x20AC;&#x153;Cultures of Virtual Worldsâ&#x20AC;?

February 2009

Culture and Practice: What We Do, Not Just Where We Are

By Cristopher Paul, Seattle University This is a brief essay, we call "think-pieces", designed to stimulate a discussion on a particular topic. For this series of essays we propose the following question:

"In thinking about the spaces of virtual worlds, and the practices we witness within them, how can we define what counts as culture? Can we see any common cultural trends emerging in different virtual worlds, or are practices as disparate as the worlds and groups we find within them?"

Abstract Arguing that culture is shaped by location and practice, this essay advocates the study of common practices across virtual worlds to better understand how shared practices constitute cultures spanning multiple worlds. Connections among worlds are growing, as world designers borrow from similar influences and player bases gain experience with multiple worlds, leading to cultures potentially defined by the practices they share, rather than the worlds they inhabit.

Keywords: practice; culture; location.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Culture and Practice 4

Culture and Practice: What We Do, Not Just Where We Are

By Cristopher Paul, Seattle University

One of the key pieces of culture is what people ‘do.’ Shared practices and meanings help solidify cultural practices and develop common symbols and structures with which to interpret surrounding stimuli. Historically, culture has been shaped by common location, as location dictated with whom we could communicate, but increased mobility and changing communication technologies have altered the importance of location for both communication and culture. As observed years ago by J.C.R. Licklider and Robert Taylor (1968), online communication increases the importance of common interest and decreases the role of geographic co-location in the development of communities (pp. 37-38). However, contemporary games research often reintroduces the role of geography in the formation of culture by analyzing single games in our research. By doing so, we risk capturing only part of what constitutes culture in virtual worlds and stand to miss insights that are tied to practices across worlds.

Tracking the practices within games, rather than the practice of a game, requires a shift in how the culture of gaming is generally approached in academic literature. If games are considered as platforms for cultural development, rather than cultures in their own right, researchers can begin to chart the behaviors that can be found across platforms, while enhancing attempts to look at particular worlds in isolation. This offers an additional benefit of focusing on the multiple discrete groups of people within given worlds that may be missed in an attempt to develop a totalizing view of a world, focusing instead on grounded practice that can be followed across multiple worlds.

The idea of emphasizing the role of practice over location and the interrelations among worlds is tied to virtual worlds in three crucial ways. First, game designers clearly lift and borrow from each other in an attempt to improve their worlds. The debut of achievements in World of Warcraft borrowed heavily from Xbox Live, among other inspirations and the history of virtual worlds is littered with examples of how the development of worlds is shaped by external elements, from Snow Crash’s Metaverse and Second Life to DIKU MUD and Everquest (Accardo, 2008). Beyond design, there are also examples of how members of virtual worlds are fluid and often choose to move from place to place. The concept of ‘churn’ in virtual worlds is predicated on the notion that players move from one game to another, which can be seen in guilds that move from game to game together and in the influence of one world on another.

Notably, one measure of participation in online worlds in 2008 showed the impact the debut of new worlds can have on old ones, especially if both worlds pursue similar types of game play, as in the case of Age of Conan and Warhammer Online (Zenke, 2008). Finally, there are some examples in the academic literature that emphasize the role of common practice in virtual worlds. Richard Bartle and Nick Yee’s work on player typologies are examples of how practices within games can be a key factor in how people engage the worlds in which they inhabit. Celia Pearce’s work on the Uru diaspora also demonstrates movement from world to world and also the importance of shared beliefs and practices in building and maintaining cultures. Given this backdrop, both offline and online examples can make the case for the importance of practice in the consideration of what constitutes culture.

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The importance of both practice and location in constructing culture can be clearly seen offline. My partnerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s family is of Norwegian descent and upholding aspects of their cultural tradition is quite important to them. They make traditional Norwegian food at holidays and â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;being Norwegianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; has so infused who they are that my partner grew up not seasoning food, as they believed proper Norwegians ate food without spices. Upon visiting Norway, her Norwegian relatives informed us that they not only use spices, but they rarely cook the traditional food that is part of the U.S. based relatives holiday festivities. Summing up the difference, one of her relatives observed that the U.S. relatives were far more concerned with being properly Norwegian and upholding traditions than the family that still lived in Norway. Quite simply, the Norwegianess of one who lives in Oslo is far less likely to be questioned than one who lives in Minneapolis. As a result, those in Minneapolis, in an effort to hold on to their culture, must consistently enact what it is to be Norwegian. For both, what counts as culture is very much shaped by both practice and location.

These offline lessons are instructive in moving to consider what counts as culture in virtual worlds. To date, virtual world research often focuses on investigating the practices of a given world, which is a necessary step to understanding the culture(s) in question, but is only reflective of part of what constitutes culture. I believe that studying a particular world is like location in offline space, a part of the picture that requires the triangulation of charting practice across worlds. A crucial new step in understanding culture in virtual worlds is looking at how location impacts the meaning and understanding of those practices, just as it does for people offline as they move from one place to another.

I suspect that there is room for substantial insight about the culture of virtual worlds to be found if we trace player behavior across these worlds. This could be done by following groups of people from world to world (as in the case of Pearce), it could be done by tracking groups of similarly motivated players (along the lines of the Bartle/Yee typologies), or it could also be done by tracking certain player behaviors across worlds to discuss how particular practices helped establish elements of emergent cultures in multiple virtual worlds. As world designers borrow from each other, especially from other worlds, this aspect of culture stands to become even more important to analyze. Tracing what brings people together, like player-versus-player (http://www.pvpsource.com/; http://www.warpvp.com/), forums for general game discussion hosted outside of the game publisher (http://elitistjerks.com; http://www.eq2flames.com/), or understanding in-world markets (http://www.thewoweconomist.com/; http://myeve.eveonline.com/ingameboard.asp?a=channel&channelID=3515), across platforms offers the opportunity to get a different kind of insight into what constitutes culture in virtual worlds, one based on practice. In this case, I think the next step in understanding what constitutes culture in virtual worlds requires us to look at what inhabitants do, so we can understand whether or not we can both spice our food and retain our Norwegianess.

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Bibliography Accardo, S. (2008). World of Warcraftâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s new achievements. GameSpy. Retrieved from http://pc.gamespy.com/pc/world-of-warcraft-wrath-of-the-lich-king/932049p1.html.

Bartle, R. (1997). Hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades: Players who suit MUDS. The Journal of Virtual Environments, 1, Retrieved from http://www.brandeis.edu/pubs/jove/HTML/v1/bartle.html.

Licklider, J.C.R. & Taylor, R. (1968). The computer as a communication device. Science and Technology, pp. 22-41.

Pearce, C. (2006). Communities of play: The social construction of identity in persistent online game worlds. In Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (Eds.), Second person: Roleplaying and story in games and playable media. Cambridge: The MIT Press, pp. 311-318.

Yee, N. (2007). Motivations of play in online games.

Behavior, 9, pp. 772-775.

Journal of CyberPsychology and

Zenke, M. (2008). GamerDNA and massively look back at the MMO year in review. Message posted to Massively at http://www.massively.com/2008/12/29/gamerdna-and-massivelylook-back-at-the-mmo-year-in-review/.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

Editor’s Corner Culture and virtual worlds: The not-quite-new experiences we study

By Mark Bell, Telecommunications program, Indiana University and Mia Consalvo, School of Media Arts & Studies, Ohio University

As a reader of this issue of JVWR, you should have an interest in virtual worlds as well as some experience with a few, even if an exact definition of what constitutes a virtual world or how to differentiate various types of virtual worlds still proves elusive to you. Popular media outlets as well as academics from multiple disciplinary homes have been rumbling about the topic for some time now, but virtual world spaces that contain millions of people globally are just now becoming a sustained subject of the studious eye of academic research. The JVWR is a part of that process, aiming to lead that study and offer vigorous, sustained discussions about how to best understand and study what we witness both on and offline in relation to virtual worlds. But this is not process that needs to begin completely afresh.

Susan Herring (2004), CMC (Computer-Mediated Communication) scholar at Indiana University, reminds us to ask two questions of new communications technologies: first, is it actually new and second, does it impact communication, society and culture? It is easy to be swayed by the notion that because virtual worlds are bright and shiny they are in fact “new.” Yet as we know, virtual worlds of the textual sort existed many years before 3D graphical versions like Second Life became popular, and literary theorists would remind us that "virtual worlds" are hardly limited to electronic media--they may be found in books, films, and other artistic realms as well. While it is important and useful to define what virtual worlds are now, as this journal is in the process of doing, we need to remind ourselves of the articulations contemporary virtual worlds share with past versions. We do this to ensure we do not keep reinventing research

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor’s Corner 4

agendas and explorations of the newest practices, as if they had no legitimate historical precedents.

It is also easy to assume that the culture virtual worlds appear to have is different or unique, either in relation to the "real world" or in relation to other virtual worlds. Yet, to fall back on such assumptions as a starting point for studying virtual worlds risks oversimplifying the questions we ask, as well as relying on false binaries such as "online/offline" that do no justice to the lived complexities of individuals and groups in virtual as well as physical spaces. Instead, we should seek to explore virtual worlds as starting points, as contingent spaces. We can examine them for their reliance on traditional cultural norms and practices, their challenges to such elements, and how they grow and evolve relative to the daily lives of their inhabitants. In every way, virtual worlds are constituted by multiple cultures, culture that is ordinary, and everyday culture that is evolving, confusing, challenging, dangerous, and exhilarating.

The study of culture, even before computers and electronics became involved, had a long and varied history. From Margret Mead’s journeys to Samoa to Foucault’s dissection of the power structures of the penal system, much thought, research, and analysis has focused on investigating, describing, and trying to understand culture. All of that work should not be forgotten when the world being studied shifts from atoms to bits. Just because virtual world interaction is mediated by avatars does not mean research is free to ignore the paths laid by those who have gone before. Clearly this is part of Tom Boellstorff’s message in referencing Mead in his recent book Coming of age in Second Life.

Scholars in fields including communication and media studies, anthropology, sociology, and law, among many others, have begun the work of trying out various methodological approaches to studying virtual worlds, modifying, adapting, and being willing to try entirely new approaches as well. Further, there remain valuable past theories and methods for understanding culture that have yet to be applied to virtual worlds. Virtual worlds are comprised of people, and people are a requirement for culture to exist. Exploring methods used to study culture in other contexts may be well (and possibly better) suited for the study of cultures in virtual worlds.

Finally, and possibly most importantly, we must attend to rigor in our research. Just as popular media accounts sensationalize certain elements of virtual worlds, so too virtual world researchers often work in isolation in their departments, being the one who must continually explain to colleagues that this research is not just “playing games” but instead a careful, wellconceptualized and planned mode of inquiry. Such work is essential not only for the advancement of knowledge, but also for the future of the entire field. For this reason, the virtual worlds researcher need to be extra diligent, thoughtful, and creative. This means research should be performed in the most exacting manner to ensure the messages we are trying to get across are not hampered by poor craftsmanship. Research requires a justifiable methodological approach behind it whether it is about the Horde culture in World of Warcraft or a newly discovered Amazon tribe.

This call to use tried and true methods in a rigorous manner is a show of respect to the virtual worlds we have spent time with and perhaps grown connected to in a deep emotional manner. The stories and data gathered from the inhabitants of virtual worlds deserve the best in terms of the work centered on them. By doing the best research, we honor to their experiences and insights.

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In the end, this is a very new field with lots of stumbling down paths yet to happen.

Missteps may happen, but we need to be overcome them with solid work and discussion to add to the field and ensure this area of research continues to yield insights into culture and how it is lived, appreciated, created, and transformed across and within virtual and physical worlds.

Bibliography Herring, S.C. (2004). Slouching toward the ordinary: Current trends in computer-mediated communication. New Media & Society, 6, pp. 26-36.

Keywords: JVWR; culture; virtual worlds; communication; research.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 “Cultures of Virtual Worlds” February 2009

Editor’s Corner Virtual Worlds Round Table

By Nick Yee, Palo Alto Research Center; Elizabeth Losh, U.C. Irvine and Sarah Robbins-Bell, Ball State University.

By being an online journal, the JVWR allows for the inclusion of some pieces that might not otherwise fit a standard journal. This was the thought behind bringing together a group of virtual world scholars to discuss a series of questions and share their thoughts. Meeting in Second Life, Nick Yee (PARC), Liz Losh (UC Irvine), and Sarah Robbins-Bell (Ball State University) were gracious enough to share their thoughts on the study of virtual worlds culture.

1. What are contemporary virtual world researchers getting right, and what do you see them getting wrong in relation to studying culture?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): I’m fascinated by how we can break the rules of social interaction in productive ways in virtual environments because they hint at how these worlds might be engineered for certain outcomes at community levels. At the simplest level, we can wonder what might happen if a smart AI inserted “thank you” and “please” intermittently in chat. Or for example, in There, when you would collide with another user, the system would show the two of you moving around each other. So work my colleagues are doing at Stanford or Jeff Hancock’s work exploring this fluidity is really interesting to me.

On the flip side, I think we’ve all become too much of WoW/SL fan boys and that we’re not paying enough attention to other worlds that are out there.

Elizabeth Losh (Malaise Etoile): I’m not sure I can presume to answer a question about “culture” since I am not a social scientist or someone trained in ethnographic techniques, so I’m always hesitant to use the word “culture” with too much authority. But one of the things that I think virtual world researchers are getting right is that they get beyond the literacy paradigm that has dominated so much research on digital cultures. Despite the importance of someone like

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor’s Corner 4

James Paul Gee, I’d argue that the literacy model is a kind of trap that ignores a lot of future political and legal complications for the inhabitants of virtual worlds, particularly when user agreements are so one-sided. In other words, there are not recognized rights to literacy in the same way that there are mutually agreed upon (and periodically contested) rights of speech, assembly, association, belief, property, due process, contractual consideration, et cetera. That is why I think that people like Ren Reynolds and Greg Lastowka are getting it right by examining how these issues operate. Another thing that I think virtual worlds researchers are getting right is that they are looking at a wide swath of users. I think too often studies of the future of digital communication and content-creation are overinvested in “digital youth” research. A lot of this phenomenon has been driven by granting agencies and philanthropic foundations, of course, but a lot of it is also driven by a very problematic romanticization and exoticization of childhood. In contrast, I’m interested in how adult stakeholders, policy makers, and authority figures are also using (and sometimes misusing) these technologies. This is why the research being done about virtual worlds is often so important, since the people sitting around this virtual table have really bucked this trend by looking at spaces that are designated for adult communication and contentcreation, which includes sexually explicit adult behaviors.

Sarah Robbins (Intellagirl Tully): It is easy to see the activities in virtual worlds as separate cultures from the analog world and to treat the behaviors as something new and never seen before. Researchers have recently begun to not only see the cultures of virtual worlds as extensions of analog culture but have also done the opposite in enlightened ways and have begun to expose cultural elements unique to virtual worlds which may inform analog culture in new ways. I believe this balance allows us to learn more from virtual worlds than we were capable in the past when virtual worlds were treated as foreign, separate spaces. However, the field of virtual worlds study is still in its nascent form. We still have much to learn about how to analyze what we observe. Virtual worlds research is a rapidly growing multidisciplinary field and because of the speed and widely varying approaches there are still mis-communications and misconnections among the research being published. The work is moving forward at such a fast pace that many of the fundamentals have yet to be established. Shared definitions, research methods, clearly defined assumptions and approaches will be necessary for the field to create a cohesive body of research. Until we do this our discussions of culture will not cohere into a conversation but will be seperate attempts to explain the same phenomenon.

2. Is VW culture valid to study? It may be easy for us to see the value but how can it be applied to a larger context, or should it be?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): I think there are actually three separate research areas here for quantitative folks. One is studying VW interaction for the sake of understanding how people behave online. Second is using VWs as a platform to study social behaviors at a level and precision not possible in physical labs. But the third and most interesting is understanding how avatars and virtual interactions can change how we behave and interact face to face.

So for example, I’ve run studies where people given avatars in a VW are subsequently asked to pick partners in an ostensibly unrelated secondary task. We found that people given attractive avatars in the VW later selected more attractive partners as potential dates. And one of my colleagues at Stanford, Jesse Fox, found that watching your own avatar running on a virtual treadmill increases the likelihood of a participant exercising in the real world.

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Elizabeth Losh (Malaise Etoile): I think Amy Bruckman is right that the discussion about virtual worlds should include Facebook and other more heavily trafficked sites for computermediated communication in which participants may feel a very strong sense of telepresence, even if it isn’t an “embodied” online experience with an avatar and 3-D navigable space.

Sarah Robbins (Intellagirl Tully): I have to strongly disagree with Elizabeth here. Facebook and other social applications may offer telepresence and a sense of shared space but they are not virtual worlds and deserve their own analysis based on their distinct affordances as do virtual worlds. The culture that develops on a social network is created and supported by very different forms of communication than form culture in a virtual world. Both spaces are too new to be compared in this way. We should endevor to understand the uniqueness of each before we try to lump them together. I conceed that there are developments that are common to both (synchronous and asynchronous global connections, unique methods of communication, and so forth) but combining them under one umbrella gaurantees that we won't arrive at a good understanding of either.

3. Early research on virtual worlds stressed the prominence of alternative cultural expressions (e.g., furries, identity play, etc.). Do you see such groups as still prominent, as dominant, or as diminishing in importance in contemporary virtual worlds?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): It’s almost surprising how mainstream a lot of worlds are now. I think what Second Life showed was that when people are truly given free rein over their world that there is a surprising (or perhaps unsurprising) amount of suburban houses and shopping for fashionable jeans.

I think there’s a shift over to understanding what these virtual worlds mean for people who are not seeking alternative expressions. For example, how do virtual worlds figure into a family that plays together (such as in T.L.’s sopranos paper)? How do virtual worlds become a place where real world tensions get played out (like the national tensions in FFXI or surrounding gold farmers)?

Elizabeth Losh (Malaise Etoile): Currently, I’m doing more research about forms of computermediated communication in which people assume an identity that is understood as mirroring many aspects of their real-life social roles and even physical appearance. It may be a younger, thinner manifestation of self, but it’s still a representation grounded in conventional ideologies about authenticity and credibility and social status. That’s why I’ve also been doing some related work on Facebook games and alternate reality games. These forms of play and interaction also raise interesting questions about politeness for me, which I think is still understudied, because there is often more work done on “trust” than on “face.”

Sarah Robbins (Intellagirl Tully): It was easy for early research to focus on facets of virtual worlds that were most distinct, exotic, and easy to encapsulate. It is understandable that unique cultures such as furries and Goreans (which exist in the analog world but are difficult to gain access to) would be the first focus of VW culture research. But there's an underlying idea here that gets missed. These cultures are prominent in some virtual worlds for a specific reason: they represent cultures which are less mainstream in the analog world and benefit from the identity affordances of virtual worlds. This facet of VW culture is too important to bury under exotic discussions of groups labeled as "deviant." In discussions of Second Life, for example, it’s

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor’s Corner 6

common for those who don't use the technology to ask questions about these kinds of cultures because these are the ones that have been discussed in the media. Goreans raise a whole lot more eyebrows than users who are building learning simulations. Furries sell more papers, get more clicks, than do experimental architects. I, for one, am glad to see signs that the media coverage and research is maturing in its focus and has moved past the easy, titilating topics to uncover the underlying meaningful cultural developments.

4. What cultural norms, if any, do you see developing in the virtual worlds you study, and are they different from real world norms? Will we see a breakout of VW cultural norms into the mainstream?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): Cultural norms differ a great deal across game worlds (even) because the rules so heavily shape how players interact with each other. In EQ, character dependence and the severe penalty for death made asking for help a cultural norm. In WoW with inline maps and third-party databases, asking for help only gets you yelled at for being a newbie and not looking it up on Thottbot yourself. It’s not the cultural norms that develop but understanding what social architectures facilitate different norms that really interests me.

Elizabeth Losh (Malaise Etoile): I’m studying the contemporary manifestations of the classical res publica or what Bruno Latour calls the process of “making things public” when environments for deliberation, debate, and consensus-building are staged by using computational media. In doing this, I see myself as part of a much longer critical tradition that goes back to the rhetoric of Greece and Rome and its concerns with embodied communication, which takes into account not just the orator and what he says in the context of a particular occasion but also the rules constraining his mode of delivery and the surrounding architectural space. So I guess I’m looking at how the mainstream informs VW cultural norms rather than vice versa.

5. What differences and similarities have you found between game-based and social-based virtual worlds?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): That’s a really big question and I haven’t done direct comparisons between the two so I’ll let the others weigh in here.

Sarah Robbins (Intellagirl Tully): While there are always exceptions, users of MMORPGs have shared goals. They are all, at least passively, participating in a game with its rules, laws, and the expectation that everyone wants to succeed (i.e., avoid character death and achieve higher levels). Because of these shared goals, users share a literacy about one another's actions.

For example, if I see an avatar battling a monster in Warhammer Online, I can safely assume that the player behind the avatar hopes to win the fight, to gain the experience points for defeating it, and that they will be glad if that experience earns them a higher level. Social virtual worlds have less of this shared literacy. If I see an avatar in Second Life editing his or her appearance I have a basic understanding of what they are doing. I know that they're changing clothing or some other aspect of their avatar's appearance. I don't know, however, why they're doing it. They aren't, for example, putting on new armor to raise their hit points as they would be in Warhammer. They may not even be changing their avatar to be more attractive. Without a shared goal system, cultural literacy is more difficult to develop.

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor’s Corner 7

6. What methods are best suited to studying culture in virtual worlds? Are our methods keeping up with the technological developments of virtual worlds?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): I think on both the quantitative and qualitative fronts, we are being swamped with data and most of us don’t have the tools or processes to deal with it.

Transcriptions have always been difficult to analyze, but now the difficulty isn’t in the transcription, it’s in what to do with 100 mbs of automatic chat logs. And when Dmitri Williams asked Sony Online for their server-side data, they sent him a hard drive with five terabytes of data. It takes just as long to set that data up in an accessible format as it does to analyze it.

I think one important lesson is to be careful what you wish for. One powerful lesson we learned from PARC’s PlayOn project was that even six variables was a lot to analyze. With large datasets, you need to have a set of research questions in mind and take only the slices of data you need. You need to be very disciplined about what to do with the data.

Elizabeth Losh (Malaise Etoile): I guess my main worry is that there aren’t enough humanists doing good virtual worlds research now. So I am sometimes starting to find myself the lone humanist at the table, although there are situations where philosophers are included. Even reviewers for the Association of Internet Researchers, which has a history of interdisciplinarity, are explicitly asking for data sets and statistics that exclude people who do not do quantitative research. For example, I think there have been some good arguments made for the value of training in literary analysis by Ian Bogost (about translation and adaptation) and by Jeffrey Bardzell (about the role of sensibility and comparative judgment in making sense of online experiences). I might even argue that the failure of Castronova’s Arden I was not just a failure of budget, management, institutional investment, or design and computational expertise, but a failure to establish a constructive dialogue between the humanists associated with the project and the social scientists and computer programmers on the team. (I’m not saying that this is necessarily Castronova’s fault either, since humanists have been reluctant to articulate the rule sets of art and literature in any kind of programmable way since structuralism has gone out of fashion). I’m not saying there’s no good work being done in the digital humanities, but I do think that it tends to be about representing and organizing information with maps and databases rather than engaging with the questions raised by virtual worlds.

Sarah Robbins (Intellagirl Tully): I agree completely with Elizabeth. Computer mediated communication and culture have become increasingly qualitative arenas of research. I think that this may be due to the data collection methods that computers make possible. When we can easily collect gigabytes of data to be analyzed, qualitative research begins to look "lazy" or "antiquated" which is wrong. I am trained as a rhetorician, a largely qualitative and theoretical field, and as I conduct more research in virtual worlds, I feel increasing pressure to move toward quantitative methods.There is a distinct danger in relying on huge qualitative data sets just because they're suddenly available to us. We begin to look at culture at a macro level and forget the important insights that micro level research can provide.

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editor’s Corner 8

7. Castronova predicts an exodus to VW's to escape from harsh realities. Will the current economic crisis draw people to VW's or push them away because it is seen as an expense?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): I think it’ll increase the likelihood they’ll be in virtual worlds because it’s a really small monthly expense compared with other ways of hanging out such as going to a movie.

Sarah Robbins (Intellagirl Tully): I don't know that more people will "escape" into virtual worlds, but I do think that with the increasing expense and inconvenience of travel, more people may turn to social virtual worlds as places to convene conferences and conduct other business.

8. Can we still talk of "player types" or identity-based categories for virtual world participants (e.g., women users, killers/explorers, and others)? Are there other ways of identifying who plays and why/how that are more productive, and does the approach differ by the type of world studied?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): I’ve never believed in buckets, but I think a shift to a notion of a set of varying motivations allows us to better appreciate the multiple motives of individual players. And it’s not a case of saying someone who scores high on Socializing isn’t Achievement oriented, as much as allowing for all possible combinations. They can be high on both, high on one, or on neither.

Elizabeth Losh (Malaise Etoile): Personally, I’m tired of studies of gender difference, even though I know that much of this research was originally backed by feminists and designed to validate the behavior of gamer girls or female content-creators to break down the stereotypical view of technology equaling testosterone and to expand the repertoire of player types.

9. How is voice changing VW culture?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): Dmitri Williams has a paper with the interesting finding that voice doesn’t bring everyone closer. It just makes it easier for people to figure out who they find annoying and who they find agreeable.

Elizabeth Losh (Malaise Etoile): I generally don’t use voice channels in computer-mediated communication on principle, so I can’t speak to that issue as a user but can address it as a critic. I recognize that the voice channel is important for conveying empathy and humor and a whole range of human emotions. But having that added bandwidth of voice also conveys information about age, gender, class, status as a linguistic minority, and even ethnicity and regional membership that invites discrimination. Furthermore, vocal communication compromises the privacy of the channel of communication in ways that privilege people who have the resources for being the lone occupant of a given physical space. There’s a lot of truth to Virginia Woolf’s idea of having a room of one’s own. I think text-only can be liberating for many people, as it was for women who were early novelists in the English literary tradition (like Fanny Burney, Jane Austen, or the Brontë sisters) and early readers who were covertly reading letters and other texts that were conduits of news and information that patriarchal authority might have been disinclined to allow. That might change with mobile technologies, of course.

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Corner 9

10. What must future virtual world researchers focus on, in order to better understand the culture of virtual worlds?

Nick Yee (Snowdrift Heron): Several things. Looking beyond WoW and SL. Exploring longitudinal data to understand how the real and virtual interleave and change each other over time. And while the data deluge can be overwhelming, there are also many potential innovations in terms of leveraging the systems themselves to collect data that wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t possible to collect before.

Sarah Robbins (Intellagirl Tully): Before we can focus on the cultures of virtual worlds, I think we need to focus on the culture of virtual worlds research. It's developed in this kind of spotty transdisciplinary way. Many fields approaching the same object from many different angles. My work attempts to create some kind of shared lingo, a shared foundation so the dialogue between researchers can be more productive. So our findings can talk to each other rather than past each other. We don't need new methods; we just need to establish some shared paradigms so our research can better form a cohesive conversation.

Keywords: virtual worlds; research methods; culture; Computer-Mediated Communications.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

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Vol. 1. No. 3 ISSN: 1941-8477 â&#x20AC;&#x153;Cultures of Virtual Worldsâ&#x20AC;?

February 2009

Artistic Expression in Second Life: What can we learn from creative pioneers of new mediums?

By John Lester/Pathfinder Linden, Linden Lab This is a brief essay, we call "think-pieces", designed to stimulate a discussion on a particular topic. For this series of essays we propose the following question: "In thinking about the spaces of virtual worlds, and the practices we witness within them, how can we define what counts as culture? Can we see any common cultural trends emerging in different virtual worlds, or are practices as disparate as the worlds and groups we find within them?"

Abstract Second Life is a virtual world that allows its residents to create completely original content using atomistic building tools in a shared and globally accessible space. In this respect it is a very unique new medium for artistic expression, as it give artists not only a new collection of creative tools, but also the ability to create an environment where individuals can experience this art as a group while engaging with each other. How are artists exploring this new medium of virtual worlds and what can we all learn from them? In some ways, they are leveraging very ancient human desires for shared experiences around classic creative work such as music and visual art. In other ways, they may be creating completely new models of artistic expression, such as dynamic art that changes based on the interactions of both live performing artists and patrons in a global setting that sometimes blurs the boundaries between the virtual world and the physical world. Studying these new artistic explorations may yield insights into yet unforeseen best practices for engaging human beings around creative content and collaborative expression in virtual worlds.

Keywords: Second Life; art; expression; virtual worlds.

This work is copyrighted under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License by the Journal of Virtual Worlds Research.

Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Artistic Expression in Second Life 4

Artistic Expression in Second Life: What can we learn from creative pioneers of new mediums?

By John Lester/Pathfinder Linden, Linden Lab A great deal of artistic expression in Second Life is at once familiar. Many of the scenarios are instantly recognizable, such as live music performances in clubs, galleries of 2D paintings hanging on walls, and sculpture gardens. When presented with new mediums, human beings tend to first replicate what is already known. It is not surprising that the first photographs closely resembled classic portraits and paintings of nature or that the first movies were little more than plays on a stage filmed with a single motion picture camera. But artists always push the boundaries of new technologies into new areas of expression. Experimenting with different lenses and exposures allowed photographers to capture still images that went beyond what had been seen in paintings of our natural world. The language of cinema evolved over decades as directors explored new ways to tell stories in film far beyond the single vantage point of someone sitting in front of a stage.

As a medium, Second Life is very successful in allowing artists to replicate preexisting models. However, it allows a much broader scope of experience due to its nature as a space that allows people from around the world to meet simultaneously in a common virtual place. At live music performances in Second Life (http://wiki.secondlife.com/wiki/Live_Performance_Home), artists typically stream in a live audio feed of their performance to an audience that is experiencing the event in real time. Everyone in the audience is "there," yet they are physically dispersed across the world. Conversations between members of the audience are commonplace, but due to the global nature of the audience, these conversations are inherently cross-cultural.

This is a new phenomenon happening in the context of a very ancient experience â&#x20AC;&#x201C; listening to music in a group.

Some artists are exploring Second Life as a medium that allows them to create work that goes beyond what they are currently creating in real life. An excellent example of this is Bryn Oh, a Second Life "Ghost Artist" for a successful Toronto oil painter. (http://brynoh.blogspot.com). Bryn sees Second Life not as a space to bring 2D copies of her real life paintings, but rather as a space to create interactive and exploratory experiences that allow patrons to step into her visions and creative stories. The group blog "Not Possible in Real life" (http://npirl.blogspot.com) acts as a hub to highlight artistic content that is simply not possible to create in real life. The range of content they cover includes architecture, landscaping, and even fashion.

Pushing the boundaries a bit further, we see artists in Second Life replicating other models such as live performances involving choreography with live actors, music, and dancers but creating experiences impossible in the physical world. Sets are designed that leverage the scripting language in Second Life, creating environments that change dramatically based on the actions of both the live performers and the audience. An example of this type of innovation is the continuing work of Second Life artist DanCoyote Antonelli and the ZeroG SkyDancers (http://sl.nmc.org/2008/01/07/zerog-second-spring/). DanCoyote's most recent performance in Second Life involved a vertical stage over three kilometers high (in relation to the size of the avatars), which lifts the audience as the dancers fly around a set that changes its structure based on their motions. The culmination of the performance allows the audience to actually fly with the dancers.

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Journal of Virtual Worlds Research - Artistic Expression in Second Life 5

Finally, artists are exploring ways to create artistic experiences that bridge the virtual and physical world. "Brooklyn is Watching" (http://brooklyniswatching.com) is a hybrid of Second Life and Real Life art, involving a Real Life gallery in Brooklyn NY where gallery visitors can see and interact with exhibits in Second Life.

CounterpART gallery (http://jeffreylipskyarts.com/filthyflunos.aspx) exists in Lowell, MA, serving as an extension of Real Life artist Jeffrey Lipsky's artistic presence in Second Life (where he is know as Filthy Fluno) that involves mixed reality mashups of not only art but also live music.

All of these examples of artistic innovation in Second Life are significant because of their basic artistic merits. But they are perhaps even more significant in the way they illustrate how artists themselves are exploring the potential of virtual worlds like Second Life. Artists fundamentally seek to engage people and expose them to new ideas, while guiding them to see the world and themselves in a new light. In Second Life, we clearly see how artists are leveraging preexisting mediums of expression and building on their familiarity, while pushing audiences and patrons to explore new ways of interacting with content and each other in a shared space.

This cultural trend should be of particular interest to academics studying the nature of virtual worlds. Since artists are by nature pushing the boundaries of new mediums and technology, they are eminently poised to make new discoveries in how virtual worlds can best be used to deeply engage human beings. What best practices can we learn from such artists? How can we leverage these practices to better use virtual worlds for education, immersive learning, and the sharing of culture in a global community? By combining something old and something new, artists are giving us a glimpse of the possibilities.

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