A reworking of Mack D. Male’s graphic.

Recently I’ve been participated in Empire Avenue, an online person stock exchange, where users buy shares in each other.

One feature that has caused me much amusement is the advertising. Using the game’s virtual money, one can buy an ad and make the case for their stock. I’d previously concentrated more on my investments rather than my own shares, but yesterday I decided to have some fun with some increasingly odd ads. Here are the results of my little experiment.

My ticker, by the way, is PORG.

I began by stating facts. I’d jumped over the weekend and was still going up.

From there, I’m moved to the Head-On approach of repeating a barely coherent statement a couple times.

Next, I decided to move into chastising users, like online “entrepreneurs” do. Nothings says ‘trust me’ like ‘you’re an idiot for not trusting me’. I approached this with increasingly nonsensical metaphor (What does “breeze of regret: and is it even bad? It was originally “gentle breeze”, but I figured that was too much.)

Note that I had a typo (though I like to imagine it being said with Mario’s faux Italian accent – “THAT’S A-the odor..”), so for the the sake of keeping results fair I reposted it.

Next, I moved into rewriting history.

Taking a slight detour in tone, this one references the other ads. It doesn’t make sense if mine is at the top, but if it’s under another ad it may offer an amusing juxtaposition.

Next, suggestions of nefarious dealings.

Some more of the Head-On approach.

And as a final experiment, a comparison between yelling and speaking, with the same statement punctuated differently.

So, how did it turn out? Here are the results:

1 click per 1200 views! Success! Oddly enough, my share prices jumped by another 2 credits overnight, though that was based more on my portfolio.

As impressive as the results are, it did fare worse than my other ad, which gave me 1 per 167 views.

Note: let me know if you want an invite to the game.

All our days are so unprofitable while they pass, that ’tis wonderful where or when we ever got anything of this which we call wisdom, poetry, virtue. We never got it on any dated calendar day. Some heavenly days must have been intercalated somewhere, like those that Hermes won with dice of the Moon, that Osiris might be born. It is said all martyrdoms looked mean when they were suffered. Every ship is a romantic object, except that we sail in. Embark, and the romance quits our vessel and hangs on every other sail in the horizon. Our life looks trivial, and we shun to record it. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Garry and I have recently taken to collecting words for the Dictionary of Words in the Wild. Since then, I’ve found a curious side-effect in myself: I have a greater appreciation of urban beauty. I find myself noticing and  appreciating the little quirks of the city in a way that I have not before, constantly regretting not havving a camera with me, regretting my inability to share the beauty. Words in the wild are by definition a human affect on nature, but when you really start looking, you appreciate this not as a tainting of nature but as a sort of growth of it.

It seems that the act of observation has changed the nature of what I set out to observe. In trying to digitize an object, we bestow upon it a status that had never been intended. This strikes me as perhaps a broader rule. In trying to digitize history, we fret about how, if at all, can we retain the essence of the object being digitize. Yet, perhaps its not the product that matters as much as the process. In seeing the shortcomings of the copy to the orginal, we are reaching toward a greater appreciation of the original than often been intended upon it’s creation.

There’s a fascinating form of online narrative that’s emerged recently. For lack of a better term, I’ve taken to calling it historical reblogging.

Historical reblogging is the gradual publishing of historical texts online over a timeline that parallels the timeline of the texts. Specifically, date-specific artifacts such as letters and journals map wonderfully to the format of blogging. We’re used to seeing such collections all at once but in historical reblogging, items are revealed gradually, adding more authenticity to the stories.

I first came by this idea when involved with the Peace and War in the 20th Century project. Though I never saved then, I saw a number of archives that were blogging soldiers’ letters home. The idea began picking up steam for other archives too, such as The Orwell Diaries, which blogs George Orwell’s diary entries from [today minus 70 years]. Even microblogging got in on the action with one-sentence journals, such as those Depression-Era farmgirl Genevieve Spencer and a 99-year-old (in 1974) Great-Gram Pratt.

One of my favourite examples is the journals of Jordan Mechner, creator of the classic video game Prince of Persia. Last year, he began gradually posting his journals from 1985-1989, offering an intimitate look into the development of his most famous game. When makes it fascinating is the familiarity with the peopple, games, and companies mentioned, but my familiarity is removed in the sense that they’re artifacts of the past (I was born in 1986). Reading these journals makes it that much more accessible. Anybody who has played Prince of Persia will feel a pang of excitement at seeing the original reference video for the protagonist’s movements, and reading about the subseqent attempts to digitize it and trace it in tiny 8-bit pixels.

Today’s blogs are yesterday’s journals. The only difference is that in the past, we only gained access to material once it had been bestowed some historical signifance, always after the fact, and always at by the will of the gatekeepers. Today, with millions blogging, history is out there, right now, being made. One day, we’ll be visiting back to the teenage blogs of the next great artist and peering in at their beginnings. We just don’t see it yet.

Toward Meaningful Computing makes the case for Humanities Computing to work closely with the Computer Sciences, to help teach computers to understand meaning in data. However, such is view is problematic for a number of reasons. Primarily, it assumes that computers can come to understand meaning in an encompassing way. The premise, then, begins to sound like this: computer scientists have hit a wall in their quest to answer all of life’s answers through binary, and digital humanists are needed to provide the secret recipe of human-encoded meaning, so that computer scientists can go on with their job.

Does that sound troublesome to you? It certainly does to me.

In reading Chris Anderson’s The End of Theory, I found myself constantly swinging beyond agreement and reaction. In it, Anderson writes that as the Internet becomes  an enormous corpus of human history, modelling is becoming irrelevant. The reason for my mixed feelings is that while I disagree with the conclusion (or the extent of it), I very much understand the points Anderson makes to get there.

Anderson is certainly more qualified to speak on the scientific method than I am. He was a scientist for many years, before becoming a writer for the very well-respected Nature and Science, eventually settling in as Editor-in-Chief of Wired. Yet, his argument appears to  be unnecessarily broad. The scientific method won’t die off, as there are still many uses in which it will reveal knowledge in traditional ways. However, as we reach problems that the scientific method cannot help with, the digital age’s gradual progress toward a corpus of human data may help. (A sidenote: perhaps Anderson intentionally exhaggerated his arguments to spur discussion. If this is the case, given the reactionary comments an the Wired page, it was not particularly successful.)

First reading the article, I kept thinking: Does having more data not allow you to create more relevant models? If a large corpus of data reveals something, do we need to retread the steps every time we intend to built on that knowledge? Contrary to my first reading, though, I think this is the exact point Anderson is making. If we have a large set of data (one nearly incomprehensible in scale, encompassing our present and our past), we are safer in assuming that knowledge derived from that data is sound. In other words, as our corpus of tangible human knowledge grows, it makes fallibilism (the bane of my existence) increasingly irrelevant as uncertainty decreases. If something is correct a thousand times out of a thousand, yes it could still be incorrect on that 1001st time, but it’s more reliable than if it had simply been right ten times out of ten. As we reach problems that we simply cannot test for absolute certainty, correllation will have to do. What Anderson appears to suggest is that, given the size of the data, this isn’t as bad as it sounds.

In regards to the “billion ebooks” discussion going on at Humanist, I have that nothing to add that hasn’t already been said by Stephen Ramsay.

“Scepticism about Wikipedia’s basic viability made some sense back in 2001; there was no way to predict, even with the first rush of articles, that the rate of creation and the average quality would both remain high, but today those objections have taken on the flavor of the apocryphal farmer beholding his first giraffe and exclaiming, ‘Ain’t no such animal!’ Wikipedia’s utility for millions of users has been settled; the interesting questions are elsewhere.”
- Clay Shirky, Here Comes Everybody, p.117

In my work on crowdsourcing, my advisors warn me to be careful of how I speak about Wikipedia around academics, because scholars are still divided on it. Clay Shirky’s quote perfectly encapsulates the situation: if it is clear that it works and that it works well, the question shouldn’t be “does it work?” Rather, we should be asking why it works. Kevin Kelly suggests that Wikipedia is “impossible in theory, but possible in practice“: shouldn’t we be tweaking our theories then? Perhaps then, the issue is that if an expert were to praise Wikipedia as reliable, they undermine society’s need for experts. Larry Sanger, creator/co-founder or Wikipedia, says no, but it’s certainly food for thought.
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