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(c) 1993 by Julian Dibbell. Permission is hereby granted to reproduce this text
file unaltered and in electronic form only; copies may be redistributed via
BBSs, Usenet newsgroups, ftp sites and any other public forums not known to
compensate producers of information they carry (ie, not Prodigy, CompuServe,
AmericaOnLine, GEnie, Delphi or their ilk). Requests for further permissions
(or other feedback of any kind) can be sent to julian@panix.com.
This article originally appeared in The Village Voice, December 21, 1993, pages
36 through 42.
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A Rape in Cyberspace
or
How an Evil Clown, a Haitian Trickster Spirit, Two Wizards, and a
Cast of Dozens Turned a Database Into a Society
By Julian Dibbell
They say he raped them that night. They say he did it with a cunning little
doll, fashioned in their image and imbued with the power to make them do
whatever he desired. They say that by manipulating the doll he forced them to
have sex with him, and with each other, and to do horrible, brutal things to
their own bodies. And though I wasn't there that night, I think I can assure
you that what they say is true, because it all happened right in the living
room--right there amid the well-stocked bookcases and the sofas and the
fireplace--of a house I've come to think of as my second home.
Call me Dr. Bombay. Some months ago--let's say about halfway between the first
time you heard the words _information_superhighway_ and the first time you
wished you never had--I found myself tripping with compulsive regularity down
the well-traveled information lane that leads to LambdaMOO, a very large and
very busy rustic chateau built entirely of words. Nightly, I typed the
commands that called those words onto my computer screen, dropping me with what
seemed a warm electric thud inside the mansion's darkened coat closet, where I
checked my quotidian identity, stepped into the persona and appearance of a
minor character from a long-gone television sitcom, and stepped out into the
glaring chatter of the crowded living room. Sometimes, when the mood struck
me, I emerged as a dolphin instead.
I won't say why I chose to masquerade as Samantha Stevens's outlandish
cousin, or as the dolphin, or what exactly led to my mild but so-far incurable
addiction to the semifictional digital otherworlds known around the Internet as
multi-user dimensions, or MUDs. This isn't my story, after all. It's the
story of a man named Mr. Bungle, and of the ghostly sexual violence he
committed in the halls of LambdaMOO, and most importantly of the ways his
violence and his victims challenged the 1000 and more residents of that
surreal, magic-infested mansion to become, finally, the community so many of
them already believed they were.
That I was myself one of those residents has little direct bearing on the
story's events. I mention it only as a warning that my own perspective is
perhaps too steeped in the surreality and magic of the place to serve as an
entirely appropriate guide. For the Bungle Affair raises questions that--here
on the brink of a future in which human life may find itself as tightly
enveloped in digital environments as it is today in the architectural
kind--demand a clear-eyed, sober, and unmystified consideration. It asks us to
shut our ears momentarily to the techno-utopian ecstasies of West Coast
cyberhippies and look without illusion upon the present possibilities for
building, in the on-line spaces of this world, societies more decent and free
than those mapped onto dirt and concrete and capital. It asks us to behold the
new bodies awaiting us in virtual space undazzled by their phantom powers, and
to get to the crucial work of sorting out the socially meaningful differences
between those bodies and our physical ones. And most forthrightly it asks us
to wrap our late-modern ontologies, epistemologies, sexual ethics, and common
sense around the curious notion of rape by voodoo doll--and to try not to warp
them beyond recognition in the process.
In short, the Bungle Affair dares me to explain it to you without resort to
dime-store mysticisms, and I fear I may have shape-shifted by the digital
moonlight one too many times to be quite up to the task. But I will do what I
can, and can do no better I suppose than to lead with the facts. For if
nothing else about Mr. Bungle's case is unambiguous, the facts at least are
crystal clear.
The facts begin (as they often do) with a time and a place. The time was a
Monday night in March, and the place, as I've said, was the living room--which,
due to the inviting warmth of its decor, is so invariably packed with
chitchatters as to be roughly synonymous among LambdaMOOers with a party. So
strong, indeed, is the sense of convivial common ground invested in the living
room that a cruel mind could hardly imagine a better place in which to stage a
violation of LambdaMOO's communal spirit. And there was cruelty enough lurking
in the appearance Mr. Bungle presented to the virtual world--he was at the time
a fat, oleaginous, Bisquick-faced clown dressed in cum-stained harlequin garb
and girdled with a mistletoe-and-hemlock belt whose buckle bore the quaint
inscription ``KISS ME UNDER THIS, BITCH!'' But whether cruelty motivated his
choice of crime scene is not among the established facts of the case. It is a
fact only that he did choose the living room.
The remaining facts tell us a bit more about the inner world of Mr. Bungle,
though only perhaps that it couldn't have been a very comfortable place. They
tell us that he commenced his assault entirely unprovoked, at or about 10
p.m. Pacific Standard Time. That he began by using his voodoo doll to force
one of the room's occupants to sexually service him in a variety of more or
less conventional ways. That this victim was legba, a Haitian trickster spirit
of indeterminate gender, brown-skinned and wearing an expensive pearl gray
suit, top hat, and dark glasses. That legba heaped vicious imprecations on him
all the while and that he was soon ejected bodily from the room. That he hid
himself away then in his private chambers somewhere on the mansion grounds and
continued the attacks without interruption, since the voodoo doll worked just
as well at a distance as in proximity. That he turned his attentions now to
Starsinger, a rather pointedly nondescript female character, tall, stout, and
brown-haired, forcing her into unwanted liaisons with other individuals present
in the room, among them legba, Bakunin (the well-known radical), and Juniper
(the squirrel). That his actions grew progressively violent. That he made
legba eat his/her own pubic hair. That he caused Starsinger to violate herself
with a piece of kitchen cutlery. That his distant laughter echoed evilly in
the living room with every successive outrage. That he could not be stopped
until at last someone summoned Zippy, a wise and trusted old-timer who brought
with him a gun of near wizardly powers, a gun that didn't kill but enveloped
its targets in a cage impermeable even to a voodoo doll's powers. That Zippy
fired this gun at Mr. Bungle, thwarting the doll at last and silencing the
evil, distant laughter.
These particulars, as I said, are unambiguous. But they are far from
simple, for the simple reason that every set of facts in virtual reality (or
VR, as the locals abbreviate it) is shadowed by a second, complicating set: the
``real-life'' facts. And while a certain tension invariably buzzes in the gap
between the hard, prosaic RL facts and their more fluid, dreamy VR
counterparts, the dissonance in the Bungle case is striking. No hideous clowns
or trickster spirits appear in the RL version of the incident, no voodoo dolls
or wizard guns, indeed no rape at all as any RL court of law has yet defined
it. The actors in the drama were university students for the most part, and
they sat rather undramatically before computer screens the entire time, their
only actions a spidery flitting of fingers across standard QWERTY keyboards.
No bodies touched. Whatever physical interaction occurred consisted of a
mingling of electronic signals sent from sites spread out between New York City
and Sydney, Australia. Those signals met in LambdaMOO, certainly, just as the
hideous clown and the living room party did, but what was LambdaMOO after all?
Not an enchanted mansion or anything of the sort--just a middlingly complex
database, maintained for experimental purposes inside a Xerox Corporation
research computer in Palo Alto and open to public access via the Internet.
To be more precise about it, LambdaMOO was a MUD. Or to be yet more
precise, it was a subspecies of MUD known as a MOO, which is short for ``MUD,
Object-Oriented.'' All of which means that it was a kind of database especially
designed to give users the vivid impression of moving through a physical space
that in reality exists only as descriptive data filed away on a hard drive.
When users dial into LambdaMOO, for instance, the program immediately presents
them with a brief textual description of one of the rooms of the database's
fictional mansion (the coat closet, say). If the user wants to leave this
room, she can enter a command to move in a particular direction and the
database will replace the original description with a new one corresponding to
the room located in the direction she chose. When the new description scrolls
across the user's screen it lists not only the fixed features of the room but
all its contents at that moment--including things (tools, toys, weapons) and
other users (each represented as a ``character'' over which he or she has sole
control).
As far as the database program is concerned, all of these entities--rooms,
things, characters--are just different subprograms that the program allows to
interact according to rules very roughly mimicking the laws of the physical
world. Characters may not leave a room in a given direction, for instance,
unless the room subprogram contains an ``exit'' at that compass point. And if
a character ``says'' or ``does'' something (as directed by its user-owner),
then only the users whose characters are also located in that room will see the
output describing the statement or action. Aside from such basic constraints,
however, LambdaMOOers are allowed a broad freedom to create--they can describe
their characters any way they like, they can make rooms of their own and
decorate them to taste, and they can build new objects almost at will. The
combination of all this busy user activity with the hard physics of the
database can certainly induce a lucid illusion of presence--but when all is
said and done the only thing you _really_ see when you visit LambdaMOO is a
kind of slow-crawling script, lines of dialogue and stage direction creeping
steadily up your computer screen.
Which is all just to say that, to the extent that Mr. Bungle's assault
happened in real life at all, it happened as a sort of Punch-and-Judy show, in
which the puppets and the scenery were made of nothing more substantial than
digital code and snippets of creative writing. The puppeteer behind Bungle, as
it happened, was a young man logging in to the MOO from a New York University
computer. He could have been Al Gore for all any of the others knew, however,
and he could have written Bungle's script that night any way he chose. He
could have sent a command to print the message ``Mr. Bungle, smiling a saintly
smile, floats angelic near the ceiling of the living room, showering joy and
candy kisses down upon the heads of all below''--and everyone then receiving
output from the database's subprogram #17 (a/k/a the ``living room'') would
have seen that sentence on their screens.
Instead, he entered sadistic fantasies into the ``voodoo doll,'' a
subprogram that served the not-exactly kosher purpose of attributing actions to
other characters that their users did not actually write. And thus a woman in
Haverford, Pennsylvania, whose account on the 'MOO attached her to a character
she called Starsinger, was given the unasked-for opportunity to read the words
``As if against her will, Starsinger jabs a steak knife up her ass, causing
immense joy. You hear Mr. Bungle laughing evilly in the distance.'' And thus
the woman in Seattle who had written herself the character called legba, with a
view perhaps to tasting in imagination a deity's freedom from the burdens of
the gendered flesh, got to read similarly constructed sentences in which legba,
messenger of the gods, lord of crossroads and communications, suffered a brand
of degradation all-too-customarily reserved for the embodied female.
``Mostly voodoo dolls are amusing,'' wrote legba on the evening after Bungle's
rampage, posting a public statement to the widely read in-MOO mailing list
called *social-issues, a forum for debate on matters of import to the entire
populace. ``And mostly I tend to think that restrictive measures around here
cause more trouble than they prevent. But I also think that Mr. Bungle was
being a vicious, vile fuckhead, and I...want his sorry ass scattered from #17
to the Cinder Pile. I'm not calling for policies, trials, or better jails.
I'm not sure what I'm calling for. Virtual castration, if I could manage it.
Mostly, [this type of thing] doesn't happen here. Mostly, perhaps I thought it
wouldn't happen to me. Mostly, I trust people to conduct themselves with some
veneer of civility. Mostly, I want his ass.''
Months later, the woman in Seattle would confide to me that as she wrote
those words posttraumatic tears were streaming down her face--a real-life fact
that should suffice to prove that the words' emotional content was no mere
playacting. The precise tenor of that content, however, its mingling of
murderous rage and eyeball-rolling annoyance, was a curious amalgam that
neither the RL nor the VR facts alone can quite account for. Where virtual
reality and its conventions would have us believe that legba and Starsinger
were brutally raped in their own living room, here was the victim legba
scolding Mr. Bungle for a breach of ``civility.'' Where real life, on the other
hand, insists the incident was only an episode in a free-form version of
Dungeons and Dragons, confined to the realm of the symbolic and at no point
threatening any player's life, limb, or material well-being, here now was the
player legba issuing aggrieved and heartfelt calls for Mr. Bungle's
dismemberment. Ludicrously excessive by RL's lights, woefully understated by
VR's, the tone of legba's response made sense only in the buzzing, dissonant
gap between them.
Which is to say it made the only kind of sense that _can_ be made of MUDly
phenomena. For while the _facts_ attached to any event born of a MUD's
strange, ethereal universe may march in straight, tandem lines separated neatly
into the virtual and the real, its meaning lies always in that gap. You learn
this axiom early in your life as a player, and it's of no small relevance to
the Bungle case that you usually learn it between the sheets, so to speak.
Netsex, tinysex, virtual sex--however you name it, in real-life reality it's
nothing more than a 900-line encounter stripped of even the vestigial
physicality of the voice. And yet as any but the most inhibited of newbies can
tell you, it's possibly the headiest experience the very heady world of MUDs
has to offer. Amid flurries of even the most cursorily described caresses,
sighs, and penetrations, the glands do engage, and often as throbbingly as they
would in a real-life assignation--sometimes even more so, given the combined
power of anonymity and textual suggestiveness to unshackle deep-seated
fantasies. And if the virtual setting and the interplayer vibe are right, who
knows? The heart may engage as well, stirring up passions as strong as many
that bind lovers who observe the formality of trysting in the flesh.
To participate, therefore, in this disembodied enactment of life's most
body-centered activity is to risk the realization that when it comes to sex,
perhaps the body in question is not the physical one at all, but its psychic
double, the bodylike self-representation we carry around in our heads. I know,
I know, you've read Foucault and your mind is not quite blown by the notion
that sex is never so much an exchange of fluids as as it is an exchange of
signs. But trust your friend Dr. Bombay, it's one thing to grasp the notion
intellectually and quite another to feel it coursing through your veins amid
the virtual steam of hot netnookie. And it's a whole other mind-blowing trip
altogether to encounter it thus as a college frosh, new to the net and still in
the grip of hormonal hurricanes and high-school sexual mythologies. The shock
can easily reverberate throughout an entire young worldview. Small wonder,
then, that a newbie's first taste of MUD sex is often also the first time she
or he surrenders wholly to the slippery terms of MUDish ontology, recognizing
in a full-bodied way that what happens inside a MUD-made world is neither
exactly real nor exactly make-believe, but profoundly, compellingly, and
emotionally meaningful.
And small wonder indeed that the sexual nature of Mr. Bungle's crime
provoked such powerful feelings, and not just in legba (who, be it noted, was
in real life a theory-savvy doctoral candidate and a longtime MOOer, but just
as baffled and overwhelmed by the force of her own reaction, she later would
attest, as any panting undergrad might have been). Even players who had never
experienced MUD rape (the vast majority of male-presenting characters, but not
as large a majority of the female-presenting as might be hoped) immediately
appreciated its gravity and were moved to condemnation of the perp. legba's
missive to _*social-issues_ followed a strongly worded one from Zippy (``Well,
well,'' it began, ``no matter what else happens on Lambda, I can always be sure
that some jerk is going to reinforce my low opinion of humanity'') and was
itself followed by others from Moriah, Raccoon, Crawfish, and evangeline.
Starsinger also let her feelings (``pissed'') be known. And even Jander, the
Clueless Samaritan who had responded to Bungle's cries for help and uncaged him
shortly after the incident, expressed his regret once apprised of Bungle's
deeds, which he allowed to be ``despicable.''
A sense was brewing that something needed to be done--done soon and in
something like an organized fashion--about Mr. Bungle, in particular, and about
MUD rape, in general. Regarding the general problem, evangeline, who
identified herself as a survivor of both virtual rape (``many times over'') and
real-life sexual assault, floated a cautious proposal for a MOO-wide powwow on
the subject of virtual sex offenses and what mechanisms if any might be put in
place to deal with their future occurrence. As for the specific problem, the
answer no doubt seemed obvious to many. But it wasn't until the evening of the
second day after the incident that legba, finally and rather solemnly, gave it
voice:
``I am requesting that Mr. Bungle be toaded for raping Starsinger and I. I
have never done this before, and have thought about it for days. He hurt us
both.''
That was all. Three simple sentences posted to _*social_. Reading them,
an outsider might never guess that they were an application for a death
warrant. Even an outsider familiar with other MUDs might not guess it, since
in many of them ``toading'' still refers to a command that, true to the
gameworlds' sword-and-sorcery origins, simply turns a player into a toad,
wiping the player's description and attributes and replacing them with those of
the slimy amphibian. Bad luck for sure, but not quite as bad as what happens
when the same command is invoked in the MOOish strains of MUD: not only are the
description and attributes of the toaded player erased, but the account itself
goes too. The annihilation of the character, thus, is total.
And nothing less than total annihilation, it seemed, would do to settle
LambdaMOO's accounts with Mr. Bungle. Within minutes of the posting of legba's
appeal, SamIAm, the Australian Deleuzean, who had witnessed much of the attack
from the back room of his suburban Sydney home, seconded the motion with a
brief message crisply entitled ``Toad the fukr.'' SamIAm's posting was seconded
almost as quickly by that of Bakunin, covictim of Mr. Bungle and well-known
radical, who in real life happened also to be married to the real-life legba.
And over the course of the next 24 hours as many as 50 players made it known,
on _*social_ and in a variety of other forms and forums, that they would be
pleased to see Mr. Bungle erased from the face of the MOO. And with dissent so
far confined to a dozen or so antitoading hardliners, the numbers suggested
that the citizenry was indeed moving towards a resolve to have Bungle's virtual
head.
There was one small but stubborn obstacle in the way of this resolve,
however, and that was a curious state of social affairs known in some quarters
of the MOO as the New Direction. It was all very fine, you see, for the
LambdaMOO rabble to get it in their heads to liquidate one of their peers, but
when the time came to actually do the deed it would require the services of a
nobler class of character. It would require a wizard. Master-programmers of
the MOO, spelunkers of the database's deepest code-structures and custodians of
its day-to-day administrative trivia, wizards are also the only players
empowered to issue the toad command, a feature maintained on nearly all MUDs as
a quick-and-dirty means of social control. But the wizards of LambdaMOO, after
years of adjudicating all manner of interplayer disputes with little to show
for it but their own weariness and the smoldering resentment of the general
populace, had decided they'd had enough of the social sphere. And so, four
months before the Bungle incident, the archwizard Haakon (known in RL as Pavel
Curtis, Xerox researcher and LambdaMOO's principal architect) formalized this
decision in a document called ``LambdaMOO Takes a New Direction,'' which he
placed in the living room for all to see. In it, Haakon announced that the
wizards from that day forth were pure technicians. From then on, they would
make no decisions affecting the social life of the MOO, but only implement
whatever decisions the community as a whole directed them to. From then on, it
was decreed, LambdaMOO would just have to grow up and solve its problems on its
own.
Faced with the task of inventing its own self-governance from scratch, the
LambdaMOO population had so far done what any other loose, amorphous
agglomeration of individuals would have done: they'd let it slide. But now the
task took on new urgency. Since getting the wizards to toad Mr. Bungle (or to
toad the likes of him in the future) required a convincing case that the cry
for his head came from the community at large, then the community itself would
have to be defined; and if the community was to be convincingly defined, then
some form of social organization, no matter how rudimentary, would have to be
settled on. And thus, as if against its will, the question of what to do about
Mr. Bungle began to shape itself into a sort of referendum on the political
future of the MOO. Arguments broke out on _*social_ and elsewhere that had
only superficially to do with Bungle (since everyone agreed he was a cad) and
everything to do with where the participants stood on LambdaMOO's crazy-quilty
political map. Parliamentarian legalist types argued that unfortunately Bungle
could not legitimately be toaded at all, since there were no explicit MOO rules
against rape, or against just about anything else--and the sooner such rules
were established, they added, and maybe even a full-blown judiciary system
complete with elected officials and prisons to enforce those rules, the better.
Others, with a royalist streak in them, seemed to feel that Bungle's
as-yet-unpunished outrage only proved this New Direction silliness had gone on
long enough, and that it was high time the wizardocracy returned to the
position of swift and decisive leadership their player class was born to.
And then there were what I'll call the technolibertarians. For them, MUD
rapists were of course assholes, but the presence of assholes on the system was
a technical inevitability, like noise on a phone line, and best dealt with not
through repressive social disciplinary mechanisms but through the timely
deployment of defensive software tools. Some asshole blasting violent, graphic
language at you? Don't whine to the authorities about it--hit the @gag command
and the asshole's statements will be blocked from your screen (and only yours).
It's simple, it's effective, and it censors no one.
But the Bungle case was rather hard on such arguments. For one thing, the
extremely public nature of the living room meant that gagging would spare the
victims only from witnessing their own violation, but not from having others
witness it. You might want to argue that what those victims didn't directly
experience couldn't hurt them, but consider how that wisdom would sound to a
woman who'd been, say, fondled by strangers while passed out drunk and you have
a rough idea how it might go over with a crowd of hard-core MOOers. Consider,
for another thing, that many of the biologically female participants in the
Bungle debate had been around long enough to grow lethally weary of the
gag-and-get-over-it school of virtual-rape counseling, with its fine line
between empowering victims and holding them responsible for their own
suffering, and its shrugging indifference to the window of pain between the
moment the rape-text starts flowing and the moment a gag shuts it off. From
the outset it was clear that the technolibertarians were going to have to
tiptoe through this issue with care, and for the most part they did.
Yet no position was trickier to maintain than that of the MOO's resident
anarchists. Like the technolibbers, the anarchists didn't care much for
punishments or policies or power elites. Like them, they hoped the MOO could
be a place where people interacted fulfillingly without the need for such
things. But their high hopes were complicated, in general, by a somewhat less
thoroughgoing faith in technology (``Even if you can't tear down the master's
house with the master's tools''--read a slogan written into one anarchist
player's self-description--``it is a damned good place to start''). And at
present they were additionally complicated by the fact that the most vocal
anarchists in the discussion were none other than legba, Bakunin, and SamIAm,
who wanted to see Mr. Bungle toaded as badly as anyone did.
Needless to say, a pro death penalty platform is not an especially
comfortable one for an anarchist to sit on, so these particular anarchists were
now at great pains to sever the conceptual ties between toading and capital
punishment. Toading, they insisted (almost convincingly), was much more
closely analogous to banishment; it was a kind of turning of the communal back
on the offending party, a collective action which, if carried out properly, was
entirely consistent with anarchist models of community. And carrying it out
properly meant first and foremost building a consensus around it--a messy
process for which there were no easy technocratic substitutes. It was going to
take plenty of good old-fashioned, jawbone-intensive grassroots organizing.
So that when the time came, at 7 p.m. PST on the evening of the third day
after the occurrence in the living room, to gather in evangeline's room for her
proposed real-time open conclave, Bakunin and legba were among the first to
arrive. But this was hardly to be an anarchist-dominated affair, for the room
was crowding rapidly with representatives of all the MOO's political stripes,
and even a few wizards. Hagbard showed up, and Autumn and Quastro, Puff,
JoeFeedback, L-dopa and Bloaf, HerkieCosmo, Silver Rocket, Karl Porcupine,
Matchstick--the names piled up and the discussion gathered momentum under their
weight. Arguments multiplied and mingled, players talked past and through each
other, the textual clutter of utterances and gestures filled up the screen like
thick cigar smoke. Peaking in number at around 30, this was one of the largest
crowds that ever gathered in a single LambdaMOO chamber, and while evangeline
had given her place a description that made it ``infinite in expanse and fluid
in form,'' it now seemed anything but roomy. You could almost feel the
claustrophobic air of the place, dank and overheated by virtual bodies,
pressing against your skin.
I know you could because I too was there, making my lone and insignificant
appearance in this story. Completely ignorant of any of the goings-on that had
led to the meeting, I wandered in purely to see what the crowd was about, and
though I observed the proceedings for a good while, I confess I found it hard
to grasp what was going on. I was still the rankest of newbies then, my MOO
legs still too unsteady to make the leaps of faith, logic, and empathy required
to meet the spectacle on its own terms. I was fascinated by the concept of
virtual rape, but I couldn't quite take it seriously.
In this, though, I was in a small and mostly silent minority, for the
discussion that raged around me was of an almost unrelieved earnestness, bent
it seemed on examining every last aspect and implication of Mr. Bungle's crime.
There were the central questions, of course: thumbs up or down on Bungle's
virtual existence? And if down, how then to insure that his toading was not
just some isolated lynching but a first step toward shaping LambdaMOO into a
legitimate community? Surrounding these, however, a tangle of weighty side
issues proliferated. What, some wondered, was the real-life legal status of
the offense? Could Bungle's university administrators punish him for sexual
harassment? Could he be prosecuted under California state laws against obscene
phone calls? Little enthusiasm was shown for pursuing either of these lines of
action, which testifies both to the uniqueness of the crime and to the
nimbleness with which the discussants were negotiating its idiosyncracies.
Many were the casual references to Bungle's deed as simply ``rape,'' but these
in no way implied that the players had lost sight of all distinctions between
the virtual and physical versions, or that they believed Bungle should be dealt
with in the same way a real-life criminal would. He had committed a MOO crime,
and his punishment, if any, would be meted out via the MOO.
On the other hand, little patience was shown toward any attempts to
downplay the seriousness of what Mr. Bungle had done. When the affable
HerkieCosmo proposed, more in the way of an hypothesis than an assertion, that
``perhaps it's better to release...violent tendencies in a virtual environment
rather than in real life,'' he was tut-tutted so swiftly and relentlessly that
he withdrew the hypothesis altogether, apologizing humbly as he did so. Not
that the assembly was averse to putting matters into a more philosophical
perspective. ``Where does the body end and the mind begin?'' young Quastro
asked, amid recurring attempts to fine-tune the differences between real and
virtual violence. ``Is not the mind a part of the body?'' ``In MOO, the body
IS the mind,'' offered HerkieCosmo gamely, and not at all implausibly,
demonstrating the ease with which very knotty metaphysical conundrums come
undone in VR. The not-so-aptly named Obvious seemed to agree, arriving after
deep consideration of the nature of Bungle's crime at the hardly novel yet now
somehow newly resonant conjecture ``all reality might consist of ideas, who
knows.''
On these and other matters the anarchists, the libertarians, the legalists,
the wizardists--and the wizards--all had their thoughtful say. But as the
evening wore on and the talk grew more heated and more heady, it seemed
increasingly clear that the vigorous intelligence being brought to bear on this
swarm of issues wasn't going to result in anything remotely like resolution.
The perspectives were just too varied, the meme-scape just too slippery. Again
and again, arguments that looked at first to be heading in a decisive direction
ended up chasing their own tails; and slowly, depressingly, a dusty haze of
irrelevance gathered over the proceedings.
It was almost a relief, therefore, when midway through the evening
Mr. Bungle himself, the living, breathing cause of all this talk, teleported
into the room. Not that it was much of a surprise. Oddly enough, in the three
days since his release from Zippy's cage, Bungle had returned more than once to
wander the public spaces of LambdaMOO, walking willingly into one of the
fiercest storms of ill will and invective ever to rain down on a player. He'd
been taking it all with a curious and mostly silent passivity, and when
challenged face to virtual face by both legba and the genderless elder
statescharacter PatGently to defend himself on _*social_, he'd demurred,
mumbling something about Christ and expiation. He was equally quiet now, and
his reception was still uniformly cool. legba fixed an arctic stare on
him--``no hate, no anger, no interest at all. Just...watching.'' Others were
more actively unfriendly. ``Asshole,'' spat Karl Porcupine, ``creep.'' But the
harshest of the MOO's hostility toward him had already been vented, and the
attention he drew now was motivated more, it seemed, by the opportunity to
probe the rapist's mind, to find out what made it tick and if possible how to
get it to tick differently. In short, they wanted to know why he'd done it.
So they asked him.
And Mr. Bungle thought about it. And as eddies of discussion and debate
continued to swirl around him, he thought about it some more. And then he said
this:
``I engaged in a bit of a psychological device that is called
thought-polarization, the fact that this is not RL simply added to heighten the
affect of the device. It was purely a sequence of events with no consequence
on my RL existence.''
They might have known. Stilted though its diction was, the gist of the
answer was simple, and something many in the room had probably already
surmised: Mr. Bungle was a psycho. Not, perhaps, in real life--but then in
real life it's possible for reasonable people to assume, as Bungle clearly did,
that what transpires between word-costumed characters within the boundaries of
a make-believe world is, if not mere play, then at most some kind of emotional
laboratory experiment. Inside the MOO, however, such thinking marked a person
as one of two basically subcompetent types. The first was the newbie, in which
case the confusion was understandable, since there were few MOOers who had not,
upon their first visits as anonymous ``guest'' characters, mistaken the place
for a vast playpen in which they might act out their wildest fantasies without
fear of censure. Only with time and the acquisition of a fixed character do
players tend to make the critical passage from anonymity to pseudonymity,
developing the concern for their character's reputation that marks the
attainment of virtual adulthood. But while Mr. Bungle hadn't been around as
long as most MOOers, he'd been around long enough to leave his newbie status
behind, and his delusional statement therefore placed him among the second
type: the sociopath.
And as there is but small percentage in arguing with a head case, the
room's attention gradually abandoned Mr. Bungle and returned to the discussions
that had previously occupied it. But if the debate had been edging toward
ineffectuality before, Bungle's anticlimactic appearance had evidently robbed
it of any forward motion whatsoever. What's more, from his lonely corner of
the room Mr. Bungle kept issuing periodic expressions of a prickly sort of
remorse, interlaced with sarcasm and belligerence, and though it was hard to
tell if he wasn't still just conducting his experiments, some people thought
his regret genuine enough that maybe he didn't deserve to be toaded after all.
Logically, of course, discussion of the principal issues at hand didn't require
unanimous belief that Bungle was an irredeemable bastard, but now that cracks
were showing in that unanimity, the last of the meeting's fervor seemed to be
draining out through them.
People started drifting away. Mr. Bungle left first, then others
followed--one by one, in twos and threes, hugging friends and waving goodnight.
By 9:45 only a handful remained, and the great debate had wound down into
casual conversation, the melancholy remains of another fruitless good idea.
The arguments had been well-honed, certainly, and perhaps might prove useful in
some as-yet-unclear long run. But at this point what seemed clear was that
evangeline's meeting had died, at last, and without any practical results to
mark its passing.
It was also at this point, most likely, that JoeFeedback reached his
decision. JoeFeedback was a wizard, a taciturn sort of fellow who'd sat
brooding on the sidelines all evening. He hadn't said a lot, but what he had
said indicated that he took the crime committed against legba and Starsinger
very seriously, and that he felt no particular compassion toward the character
who had committed it. But on the other hand he had made it equally plain that
he took the elimination of a fellow player just as seriously, and moreover that
he had no desire to return to the days of wizardly fiat. It must have been
difficult, therefore, to reconcile the conflicting impulses churning within him
at that moment. In fact, it was probably impossible, for as much as he would
have liked to make himself an instrument of LambdaMOO's collective will, he
surely realized that under the present order of things he must in the final
analysis either act alone or not act at all.
So JoeFeedback acted alone.
He told the lingering few players in the room that he had to go, and then
he went. It was a minute or two before ten. He did it quietly and he did it
privately, but all anyone had to do to know he'd done it was to type the @who
command, which was normally what you typed if you wanted to know a player's
present location and the time he last logged in. But if you had run a @who on
Mr. Bungle not too long after JoeFeedback left evangeline's room, the database
would have told you something different.
``Mr. Bungle,'' it would have said, ``is not the name of any player.''
The date, as it happened, was April Fool's Day, and it would still be
April Fool's Day for another two hours. But this was no joke: Mr. Bungle was
truly dead and truly gone.
They say that LambdaMOO has never been the same since Mr. Bungle's toading.
They say as well that nothing's really changed. And though it skirts the
fuzziest of dream-logics to say that both these statements are true, the MOO is
just the sort of fuzzy, dreamlike place in which such contradictions thrive.
Certainly whatever civil society now informs LambdaMOO owes its existence
to the Bungle Affair. The archwizard Haakon made sure of that. Away on
business for the duration of the episode, Haakon returned to find its wreckage
strewn across the tiny universe he'd set in motion. The death of a player, the
trauma of several others, and the angst-ridden conscience of his colleague
JoeFeedback presented themselves to his concerned and astonished attention, and
he resolved to see if he couldn't learn some lesson from it all. For the
better part of a day he brooded over the record of events and arguments left in
_*social_, then he sat pondering the chaotically evolving shape of his
creation, and at the day's end he descended once again into the social arena of
the MOO with another history-altering proclamation.
It was probably his last, for what he now decreed was the final, missing
piece of the New Direction. In a few days, Haakon announced, he would build
into the database a system of petitions and ballots whereby anyone could put to
popular vote any social scheme requiring wizardly powers for its
implementation, with the results of the vote to be binding on the wizards. At
last and for good, the awkward gap between the will of the players and the
efficacy of the technicians would be closed. And though some anarchists
grumbled about the irony of Haakon's dictatorially imposing universal suffrage
on an unconsulted populace, in general the citizens of LambdaMOO seemed to find
it hard to fault a system more purely democratic than any that could ever exist
in real life. Eight months and a dozen ballot measures later, widespread
participation in the new regime has produced a small arsenal of mechanisms for
dealing with the types of violence that called the system into being. MOO
residents now have access to a @boot command, for instance, with which to
summarily eject berserker ``guest'' characters. And players can bring suit
against one another through an ad hoc arbitration system in which mutually
agreed-upon judges have at their disposition the full range of wizardly
punishments--up to and including the capital.
Yet the continued dependence on death as the ultimate keeper of the peace
suggests that this new MOO order may not be built on the most solid of
foundations. For if life on LambdaMOO began to acquire more coherence in the
wake of the toading, death retained all the fuzziness of pre-Bungle days. This
truth was rather dramatically borne out, not too many days after Bungle
departed, by the arrival of a strange new character named Dr. Jest. There was
a forceful eccentricity to the newcomer's manner, but the oddest thing about
his style was its striking yet unnameable familiarity. And when he developed
the annoying habit of stuffing fellow players into a jar containing a tiny
simulacrum of a certain deceased rapist, the source of this familiarity became
obvious:
Mr. Bungle had risen from the grave.
In itself, Bungle's reincarnation as Dr. Jest was a remarkable turn of
events, but perhaps even more remarkable was the utter lack of amazement with
which the LambdaMOO public took note of it. To be sure, many residents were
appalled by the brazenness of Bungle's return. In fact, one of the first
petitions circulated under the new voting system was a request for Dr. Jest's
toading that almost immediately gathered 52 signatures (but has failed so far
to reach ballot status). Yet few were unaware of the ease with which the toad
proscription could be circumvented--all the toadee had to do (all the ur-Bungle
at NYU presumably had done) was to go to the minor hassle of acquiring a new
Internet account, and LambdaMOO's character registration program would then
simply treat the known felon as an entirely new and innocent person. Nor was
this ease generally understood to represent a failure of toading's social
disciplinary function. On the contrary, it only underlined the truism
(repeated many times throughout the debate over Mr. Bungle's fate) that his
punishment, ultimately, had been no more or less symbolic than his crime.
What _was_ surprising, however, was that Mr. Bungle/Dr. Jest seemed to have
taken the symbolism to heart. Dark themes still obsessed him--the objects he
created gave off wafts of Nazi imagery and medical torture--but he no longer
radiated the aggressively antisocial vibes he had before. He was a lot less
unpleasant to look at (the outrageously seedy clown description had been
replaced by that of a mildly creepy but actually rather natty young man, with
``blue eyes...suggestive of conspiracy, untamed eroticism and perhaps a sense
of understanding of the future''), and aside from the occasional jar-stuffing
incident, he was also a lot less dangerous to be around. It was obvious he'd
undergone some sort of personal transformation in the days since I'd first
glimpsed him back in evangeline's crowded room--nothing radical maybe, but
powerful nonetheless, and resonant enough with my own experience, I felt, that
it might be more than professionally interesting to talk with him, and perhaps
compare notes.
For I too was undergoing a transformation in the aftermath of that night in
evangeline's, and I'm still not entirely sure what to make of it. As I pursued
my runaway fascination with the discussion I had heard there, as I pored over
the _*social_ debate and got to know legba and some of the other victims and
witnesses, I could feel my newbie consciousness falling away from me. Where
before I'd found it hard to take virtual rape seriously, I now was finding it
difficult to remember how I could ever _not_ have taken it seriously. I was
proud to have arrived at this perspective--it felt like an exotic sort of
achievement, and it definitely made my ongoing experience of the MOO a richer
one.
But it was also having some unsettling effects on the way I looked at the
rest of the world. Sometimes, for instance, it was hard for me to understand
why RL society classifies RL rape alongside crimes against person or property.
Since rape can occur without any physical pain or damage, I found myself
reasoning, then it must be classed as a crime against the mind--more intimately
and deeply hurtful, to be sure, than cross burnings, wolf whistles, and virtual
rape, but undeniably located on the same conceptual continuum. I did not,
however, conclude as a result that rapists were protected in any fashion by the
First Amendment. Quite the opposite, in fact: the more seriously I took the
notion of virtual rape, the less seriously I was able to take the notion of
freedom of speech, with its tidy division of the world into the symbolic and
the real.
Let me assure you, though, that I am not presenting these thoughts as
arguments. I offer them, rather, as a picture of the sort of mind-set that
deep immersion in a virtual world has inspired in me. I offer them also,
therefore, as a kind of prophecy. For whatever else these thoughts tell me, I
have come to believe that they announce the final stages of our decades-long
passage into the Information Age, a paradigm shift that the classic liberal
firewall between word and deed (itself a product of an earlier paradigm shift
commonly known as the Enlightenment) is not likely to survive intact. After
all, anyone the least bit familiar with the workings of the new era's
definitive technology, the computer, knows that it operates on a principle
impracticably difficult to distinguish from the pre-Enlightenment principle of
the magic word: the commands you type into a computer are a kind of speech that
doesn't so much communicate as _make_things_happen_, directly and ineluctably,
the same way pulling a trigger does. They are incantations, in other words,
and anyone at all attuned to the technosocial megatrends of the moment--from
the growing dependence of economies on the global flow of intensely fetishized
words and numbers to the burgeoning ability of bioengineers to speak the spells
written in the four-letter text of DNA--knows that the logic of the incantation
is rapidly permeating the fabric of our lives.
And it's precisely this logic that provides the real magic in a place like
LambdaMOO--not the fictive trappings of voodoo and shapeshifting and wizardry,
but the conflation of speech and act that's inevitable in any computer-mediated
world, be it Lambda or the increasingly wired world at large. This is
dangerous magic, to be sure, a potential threat--if misconstrued or
misapplied--to our always precarious freedoms of expression, and as someone who
lives by his words I do not take the threat lightly. And yet, on the other
hand, I can no longer convince myself that our wishful insulation of language
from the realm of action has ever been anything but a valuable kludge, a
philosophically damaged stopgap against oppression that would just have to do
till something truer and more elegant came along.
Am I wrong to think this truer, more elegant thing can be found on
LambdaMOO? Perhaps, but I continue to seek it there, sensing its presence just
beneath the surface of every interaction. I have even thought, as I said, that
discussing with Dr. Jest our shared experience of the workings of the MOO might
help me in my search. But when that notion first occurred to me, I still felt
somewhat intimidated by his lingering criminal aura, and I hemmed and hawed a
good long time before finally resolving to drop him MOO-mail requesting an
interview. By then it was too late. For reasons known only to himself,
Dr. Jest had stopped logging in. Maybe he'd grown bored with the MOO. Maybe
the loneliness of ostracism had gotten to him. Maybe a psycho whim had carried
him far away or maybe he'd quietly acquired a third character and started life
over with a cleaner slate.
Wherever he'd gone, though, he left behind the room he'd created for
himself--a treehouse ``tastefully decorated'' with rare-book shelves, an
operating table, and a life-size William S. Burroughs doll--and he left it
unlocked. So I took to checking in there occasionally, and I still do from
time to time. I head out of my own cozy nook (inside a TV set inside the
little red hotel inside the Monopoly board inside the dining room of
LambdaMOO), and I teleport on over to the treehouse, where the room description
always tells me Dr. Jest is present but asleep, in the conventional depiction
for disconnected characters. The not-quite-emptiness of the abandoned room
invariably instills in me an uncomfortable mix of melancholy and the creeps,
and I stick around only on the off chance that Dr. Jest will wake up, say
hello, and share his understanding of the future with me.
He won't, of course, but this is no great loss. Increasingly, the complex
magic of the MOO interests me more as a way to live the present than to
understand the future. And it's usually not long before I leave Dr. Jest's
lonely treehouse and head back to the mansion, to see some friends.