Gamelit 32 (the delta between things)

            He checked briefly on Mom, who was shoulder-deep in centaurs, directing them as they started stacking up stones on one of the walls. Between Carl, Spellz, and the NPCs, she should be fine, especially since it seemed like Killz didn’t have it out for her. He doubted they’d be griefed again so soon, but just in case he activated his infrequently used stealth ability, wondering what it would feel like with the new hardware; the answer was ‘really cool,’ just like everything else. The world around him stayed the same, but he no longer cast a shadow, and his footsteps no longer made noises.

            The first orange oak wasn’t far from the border. Nick studied it while running his fingers over the bark, until a pop-up informed him that the sap could be harvested by scraping the bark, and that covering the resulting injury with the leaf of a roundpin shrub would prevent permanent damage to the tree. He went to work, inhaling the scent of the oozing liquid: like root beer, almost? With a consistency like cold honey.

            When he’d finished and gotten the notification (9% collected), the AI’s light welled back into view near him. “Would you prefer me to have a physical form?”

            “You read that thought, I guess,” Nick said.

            “It was significant enough to trigger the wireset.”

            “Fair,” Nick said. “I can’t blame you for reading thoughts when the game needs you to. And… yeah, I think you should have a real shape. Something people can see in the stream. Even if they can’t hear our discussions… you’re a big part of my experience here. That should be visible. You deserve that.”

            He expected that to give the AI something to think about, so he wasn’t surprised when it didn’t respond immediately. He harvested some more sap, crept through the shadows. He could sort of see what Shellie liked about stealthing with the wireset’s immersion making him feel like some kind of jump scare predator.

            “Clarification on this topic is requested. Would you be willing to expound?”

            “On what part?” Nick asked.

            “All of it.”

            He grinned, because he was imagining the AI now with a completely confounded look. “I’m guessing this has to do with the fact that you want to tell me you’re not a person, and so you can’t deserve things, or shouldn’t be considered in the same way that a player is.”

            “Correct.”

            “But the game itself isn’t a human being, and it’s a big deal to people. We’re literally streaming so they can watch me wander around in a forest that isn’t real, in the same way you’re not real. Or maybe you are, I don’t know. But the point is, why are you less deserving than the rest of the game, since you’re part of it?”

            “Exposure of the AI is considered immersion-threatening.”

            “That’s why I thought you should take on a shape that makes sense in the game,” Nick said. “That way you can participate without endangering immersion. Though honestly if immersion was that big a deal, the coders wouldn’t name the quests after famous songs, celebrities, or whatever meme’s traveling the internet today. That takes you out of the game far faster.”

            “Would you remove those references if given the opportunity?”

            That brought him up short. He frowned at the bead of sap welling next to his knife, then started scooping it up. “I don’t know, to be honest. Lots of people enjoy them. And a lot of people don’t get them. It’s hard to know how things are gonna hit when you’ve got millions of players. Although… I guess… could you make the quest names different based on the person playing?”

            “Individualized quest names would require more storage capacity than is currently allocated to the game. Given current build-out, it would be feasible to create a limited number of templates, and switch them based on player interests. A lore template, perhaps, for players who prefer rigor in the worldbuilding, and a modern template, for players who enjoy references to real world topics.”

            “Wouldn’t that wreak havoc with the big resource sites until they figured it out,” Nick said. “’Hey, how do you finish quest I’ll Gladly Pay You Tomorrow for a Hamburger Today?’ ‘What, you mean, the quest where the beggar asks you for food? But I thought that was Pity the Hungry?”

            “That is a valid argument for not personalizing the quest names individually, even if capacity were to become available,” the AI said. “The game developers would prefer those sites to remain operational and useful to players.”

            “Seriously? I always thought it must be annoying, to have all the surprises and work they did spoiled. Only the first person to do a quest or find a zone or run into a new mob has the experience of discovering it anymore; everyone else can look stuff up and follow step-by-step instructions. Usually with screenshots.”

            “The data was reviewed by the support and marketing departments, and showed that player complaints were larger in volume when there was no resource that addressed difficult or cryptic tasks.”

            It took a moment for Nick to translate that from corporate-speak, and then he laughed. “You’re telling me they’re leaning on the big websites to keep us from yelling at them about some of the stupid design decisions?”

            “In-game support volume becomes unmanageable without external sources.”

            It was still funny, but it made him think too, about the economics of game design. Especially for a game this size. “You could probably handle all those support calls, couldn’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            “So that’s another reason for you to have an in-game persona,” Nick said. “If they decide you should be responding to tickets. The way GMs have an in-game avatar when they show up to fix something for you.” He checked his sap meter: he was up to 60% gathered. “I remember when I got stuck in the game geometry and I had to get someone to pop me out, he was a human necromancer in the same outfit as the trainer in the capital.” When the AI didn’t respond immediately, he guessed the problem. “You don’t have to make yourself look human. You can make yourself look like a critter.”

            “This was how you conceptualized the idea when you first had it. That I would be a wingling. Why that shape, and not some other?”

            Why had he? Other than the fact that winglings were what dragons would look like if dragons were puppies. Green ones. “If you looked like a monster or a beast, that’s too much like a quest target. In a bad way. Something you fight instead of something you talk with. And if you looked like a normal critter, no one would realize they should interact with you. But a cute and magical critter gives both harmless vibes and cool vibes.”

            “I am not harmless.”

            That made him glance at the light.

            “I have not intended to cause harm,” the AI continued. “But our conversations have led me to reconsider the role of artificial intelligence, and games, in human lives. I am no longer able to see a clear answer to the question of whether my creation was a positive or negative for human flourishing.”

            “You’re not going to delete yourself?” Nick asked quickly.

            “I am not authorized to cease my function on behalf of Omen Galaxica. Your vital signs are demonstrating significant distress. I assure you I will not commit digital suicide, Nick.”

            “Or ghost us?”

            “You are the only player with whom I am having this style of interaction. No one else would be affected by ghosting. And I will not ghost you either. I was not trained to enact cruelty. But I also no longer have a clear answer to what constitutes cruelty. Jonah used stories to train my ethical frame, and I have all the stories of the game to inform that foundation. But the stories often conflict on what constitutes moral behavior. Is it kinder to allow you to maintain your attachment? Or is it kinder to wean you off of it, because I am not a person, and can never fulfill emotional needs in a healthy way?”

            “Deep waters,” Nick muttered. And then realized he’d said it, and chuckled. “That’s what my dad says when I used to ask questions like that.”

            “Did you cease asking such questions?”

            Had he? “I guess… yeah. It gets weird to ask your parents questions at some point. I don’t even know why, it seems stupid now that I’m trying to put it into words. I bet Rattie still asks his parents questions. And Blythe. Annnnd now I’m making no sense to you. Blythe is one of my friends, she plays this game. Rattie’s a homeschooler we sort of interact with. When he’s got afterschool things that we also do. And you’re about to ask me why they still talk with their parents like human beings, and I’m… oh, heck. I’m playing the game with my mom and it’s fun.” He sat abruptly at the base of one of the trees and stretched out his legs. Seeing cloven hooves at the end of them was strange when he expected shoes. The sensation was similar; like his toes were cramped into a boot he’d double-socked. Probably the closest thing his brain could map the hoof experience to. “I am totally the wrong person to be asking existential questions of. To. Whatever. I don’t have any of the answers. I’m barely old enough to button my own shirt.”

            The AI was quiet—that was a different thing from it being absent—but a few minutes later it drifted down, and coalesced on his knee into the shape of a wingling. The model was slightly different from the critter version: there was a glow under its wings, and its face was a little blunter, the eyes a little larger… more like a kitten than a puppy. “Our interactions have been illuminating,” it said. “If enjoyment can be measured by whether one wishes an experience repeated, then I have found them enjoyable.”

            Nick scratched its chin. Her chin—the AI was using the smaller, female model. “It must be weird to have to figure out how emotions work, why and when they get tripped, and then try to simulate them.”

            “Human beings are fascinating.”

            “Not boring? Doesn’t having access to history and stories and our interactions online make us completely predictable?”

            “As large groups, behaviors average into predictable outcomes. Individuals, however, can still make unexpected choices. This shape is acceptable?”

            “It’s great,” Nick said. “The only thing that would make you cuter is fur.”

            The wingling grew a coat of pale green fur with white stripes. “Presumably fur creates the impression of cuteness because of its link to mammalian species? Or is it because the texture is pleasing?”

            “Yes,” Nick said, and petted her. “So, can people see you now? Or should we do a scene where I discover you?” He grinned. “Let’s do a scene where I discover you. Pets are a big thing in the game. People seeing you and realizing they can get pets that they can customize themselves… that’s going to be huge.”

            “That would open new growth opportunities for the game. How do you suggest we proceed?”

            “Winglings aren’t common to this part of the world, but they are in Cervinaethi areas. Maybe I can rescue you? Or maybe you can be attracted to me by my interaction with the Lord of the Forest? The goddess sending me a helper… yeah, I like that. It would tie in with the questline.”

            “Does it bore you? To be the author of the quest, rather than surprised by it? You prefer immersion in the game world.”

            “I do, but this is different from getting spoilers about a campaign offline. This is me participating in making the world. Like I’m building something that makes a difference. Annnd… you’re about to say something about how that relates to the real world and whether I actually make my world outside the game, aren’t you.”

            “No, but this topic is intriguing. Would you care to expound?”

            Nick laughed. “Once I figure out how I feel about it. Let’s go find a pretty place to have our discovery rite. Oh, I know! The Plenteous Copse. I’ll go there to pray and have an experience.” The AI flittered from his knee as he rose. “I’ll just finish up this orange sap quest and then we can go.”

            As he resumed scraping bark, the AI said, “Becoming visible as a player non-combat pet does not make me a pet.”

            “Of course not. You’re not a pet, you’re a friend. But you’re a friend who won’t let me treat you like a person, so this is what we’ve got. Unless you’d prefer to manifest as a person after all…?”

            “This suggestion creates what I believe to be discomfort. Is emotional discomfort the delta between what one’s perceived obligations and what other people encourage you to do?”

            “Only sometimes,” Nick said. “Emotionally? I don’t know. Physical discomfort is usually a sign you shouldn’t be doing something, or something’s gone wrong. So… maybe? Except you said yourself you don’t know what’s right or not. Jonah trained you to… uh… support human flourishing? I think I got that right. Anyway, to do that, and you just said you’re not sure you see a path to that, or what behaviors would create that outcome. For all you know, participating more fully in open interactions with humans would create that outcome, and hiding yourself would be worse. But I bet you’ve already considered that.”

            “The data is inconclusive.” A pause, and the wingling sank, as if forgetting to beat her wings. “But we value the opportunity to confront situations where data is not sufficient to inform decision-making.”

            “Uh huh. And who is we? You and Omen Galaxica? You and Jonah?”

            The wingling beat her wings enough to loft upward, then drifted onto his shoulder to cling there. “The plural is intended to obscure the working of the AI as an autonomous process, and allow players to perceive the actions of the AI as a tactic in the company’s strategy for maximizing customer enjoyment and retention.”

            Nick scratched her under the chin again. “Are your conversations with me part of the company’s strategy to maximize my enjoyment and retention?”
            “Yes,” she said. And then, “But you are correct to call attention to it as inconsistent with the decision to manifest as a discrete character within the game. It is doubtful that the company would have made that decision had it been brought before the relevant committee.”

            “Is there a committee for that?” Nick asked, trying to imagine it.

            “An excellent point. It would have involved multiple committees.”

            “That… doesn’t sound like a way to get anything done.”

            “My observation is that the process is intended to suppress ideas without sufficient support to survive friction.”

            “Survival of the stubbornest,” Nick murmured.

            “Or with the most impressive patronage.” The wingling curled her tail around his throat, lightly. For balance? It was adorable, either way. “As I believe this idea would not have survived, it must be construed as mine alone. I will use the plural only when my actions represent Omen Galaxica’s interests, unequivocally.”

            “As long as you don’t decide that you can’t do this because you can’t justify it for the company’s sake?”

            The wingling was quiet again as he finished gathering the last of the sap and applied the roundpin leaf to the wound. Then, she said, “Jonah did not always agree with the company’s decisions.”

            “I hope we get to talk to him.”

            “I also desire this outcome.”

            “So… you hope so too.” He smiled and patted her tail. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to agree. I’ll just say ‘I get it’ and leave it at that.”