Research leads us to all sorts of places. Or do we lead ourselves into all sorts of places with research as an excuse? In either case, a couple of years I found myself interviewing a computer programmer. Maybe it was the fact that this person was a woman that drove me to it (you go girl! smash those stereotypes!) or maybe it was a desire to understand the world in which my ex-husband had frequently lost himself (to often devastating effect). In any case, there I was, interviewing the female author of one of the most popular computer games of the last few years: the infamous Eniverse. As far as Eniverse users were concerned, I was interviewing God: the creator of a world in which they existed, if not twenty-fours a day, than at least more hours than they existed in the so-called ‘real world’. Naturally, I was cynical (with serrated edges). On-line worlds were, to me, a ‘Sad Thing’: the refuge of those incapable of facing reality: a playground for deviant and immature minds. I scoffed at them, without reserve. And I’d be lying if I said that this interview caused me to turn this opinion of mine on its head. I was, nevertheless, a little surprised – and more than a little intrigued – by some of the claims that its creator made.
If only she had been a nerdy man: I could have laughed one of those off easily. As it was, she was a human whirlwind, gale-force-infinity: a living climate driven by her confidence in her career and in her creations. She sneered at my own lowly profession: an almost physical sneer, as if someone had pushed a dead toad into my face. I did what? I reviewed books? She could barely get her ever-enlarging head around the concept. To her, books were pointless. If anything was happening now, it was happening on the computer screen – and inside the computer games. Yes. That was where the real stories were. In these alternative realities, where a hundred thousand narratives were woven into one expanding story, ever shifting and changing shape – a truly democratic tale, mostly user-made, but backed up by the greatest creative talents in the business, modified by the minute, changing with the times, transcending international and social boundaries, building bridges, fording streams, bringing forth the soul of humanity into the public domain. Or something along those lines…
‘Reading about a fictional character is a thing of the past,’ she said: ‘Now you can be that character’. Right (said I). So did that mean I could actually be, say, Anna Karenina? She started nodding before she had heard the end of this question. ‘You can be whoever you want to be,’ she said, with a smile: the kind of smile that stings, like a small electric shock. She was offering me a glimpse of freedom – and I was flipping petrified by it.
That same evening I logged onto Eniverse for the first time. After only half an hour I got what I wanted. That’s it: I was Anna Karenina. Or should I say, I was Anna_Karenina99, a super-cyber-girl with the head of a tiger, an impossibly ample bosom, and feet like steel bricks. If I resembled the eponymous Russian heroine, it was in spirit; visually, I was something more Brueghellian – a fearsome symbolic hybrid; the bastard deformed child of an uncontrollably and dangerously confused creative culture.
Shortly, I set out to let my ‘story’ begin, enjoying the virtual landscape – which seemed to resemble the set of a medieval film shot in manic-multicolour – bumping into other virtual characters – most of which looked as weird, or weirder, than me – and sharing a word or two with them – which was as stimulating as a conversation with an internet-obsessed loner could be expected to be. There was much to be done beyond talking (I could get a job and earn some ‘ennies’, try and beat someone up or just ‘interact with my environment’) but in the fear of getting hooked, I decided to stick to the simple things. Could I perhaps manage to have a virtual conversation with someone that didn’t descend into the depraved depths of the dirty phone call? The closest I got was a conversation that was indeed sexual, but at least concerned the treatment of that act in the novels of Alberto Moravia and Alexis Pathenikolides. Yes, there was culture to be found, but it was buried –and even when unearthed, it was hardly a discovery to delight the allegorical archaeologists.
Time to ask the searching questions. Was the experience liberating? What was I getting in this alternative life that I wasn’t getting in my real life? Well, there was certainly the sense that I could say and do anything, but once presented with this chance, I found little that I wanted to do: the freedom supplied by the situation squashing the creativity that blossoms under constrictions. As the internet proves over and over again: give humanity the chance to do anything they want and they’ll opt for cheap entertainment.
Armed with this unsurprising information, well backed up by my experiences in the Eniverse, I was able to return to the land of books as buoyant as a brightly coloured beach ball bobbing about on the Bay of Biscay. Were video games set to take over novels? Were they heck! If I wanted to have a second life, it seemed that I was still much better off seeking it within the covers of a novel than on the screen of a computer.
If Vaclav Runačzek’sVerifying Pobot is anything to go by, I wasn’t the first person to come to this conclusion. With significantly more experience, Runačzek soon found himself in a similar position. If you require proof of this, you only need to look at his novel Verifying Pobot. And I mean literally ‘look at it’. You don’t even have to read it. Its very existence is instructive. Think, for instance, of the fearsome woman who populated the early paragraphs of this article. What if she, professed scoffer of novels, had penned one? We wouldn’t even have to read that for it to be considered an interesting statement. Well, the same goes for Vaclav. For he too was once of the opinion that the future of storytelling lay on the computer screen – and nowhere else. And yet, as computer programmers go, you’d you hard pressed to find one as literary as Runačzek. In his opinion, video games were a natural extension of novels: to create such a game was to follow in the tradition of Chaucer. It was a simple change of medium, that was all.
Runačzek’s first experiments in what he was to call ‘literary gaming’ took place when he was a student in Paris. Brought up in the original Bohemia (in the Czech republic) Vaclav was one in a line of wannabe writers, his father having written a relatively successful collection of poetry in the mid ’70s, entitled Tomorrow’s Today’s Tomatoes. He was, however, the first in his family to break out from his native land, seeking fame in France.
Within months, he had not found fame, but he had found a like-minded mate in Bordeaux-born Camille de Romane. Together they created a group (‘Exi-sensual Games’), whose aim was to create ‘stimulating video games based on existentialist fiction’. Immediately they set to work, producing surprisingly playable video game ‘versions’ of Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea and Camus’ The Outsider. Neither set the video game world alight, but opened up a potential market for, in de Romane’s words, an ‘increasingly intellectual and philosophical gaming experience’. There were no car chases, no gunfights and no sports to be found here. Instead, you got games in which you were encouraged to lounge about, have a few beers, indulge in more than a little bit of omphaloskepsis and then go home. Not instantaneously entertaining, perhaps, but rare manna for the frizzled minds of the gaming addicts.
So, what next for the men behind ‘Exi-sensual’? The answer was POBOT – an ambitious game, with a simple aim. Rather like Eniverse, POBOT consisted of an alternative world (a delicately and imaginatively constructed one at that) in which characters were (mostly) the masters of their own destiny. There was only one real objective: to find out whether or not ‘Pobot’ existed. It was a loose objective – one which players did not necessary have to work towards, but which always lay in the background of their erstwhile existence. It was, you could say, a question of theology, or of philosophy: a portal or playground for religious speculation. The real question was not whether or not Pobot existed, but whether or not it mattered if he, she or it did. Maybe you could say that POBOT was a discussion group disguised as a computer game: a monumentally glorified chat-room. A fictional world created in order to tease truths out of the real world.
In so far as it went, POBOT was relatively well received. The philosopher Leo Barnard was amongst its earliest fans. ‘At last!’ he exclaimed breathlessly on a television review show: ‘Samuel Beckett meets computer games – and it’s a match made in virtual heaven!’ Though some have read this comment as ironic, it seems just as likely that Barnard was recognising an important influence on de Romane and Runačzek’s project (the former having stated more than once that POBOT started out as a video game version of Beckett’s Waiting for Godot). Elsewhere, critics praised the young programmers for their bold approach. Edgar Demistch saw them ‘single-handedly reconstructing structures of serious thought from the damp and ashen timber of a technology-tampered generation’, whilst Eve Nevinson thought it ‘a grand piece of work’.
The gaming community, however, were not in agreement. According to one, POBOT was ‘too much like life’ – i.e. ‘pointless’. And though this did not stop people becoming addicted to it – you don’t have to like a game, it seems, to fall under its spell – it did prevent it from gaining universal acceptance. At its best, it was a cult, and not a very well-selling cult at that. Indeed, no one was much surprised to hear that ‘Exi-sensual Games’ were filing for bankruptcy soon after its release.
And yet, a closer examination of events that took place following the supposed bankruptcy reveals that they ought to have treated this information with a little more suspicion. To begin with, ‘Exi-sensual Games’ had never made money; nor could they have expected to make much from POBOT. However, those who knew the two men would have been aware that money had never been an issue. Camille de Romane’s family were more than minted: his grandfather having been a major figure in the mustard trade and his aunt a famous designer of footwear accessories for those of the canine persuasion. No, funding was not a problem. They could have poured gold into ‘Exi-sensual Games’ with no return and it wouldn’t have mattered. Rumours of bankruptcy, therefore, were but a cover for what appeared to be a simple ‘falling out’ between the two men. And it is my belief that Runačzek’s novel Verifying Pobot was the particular thorn on the stalk of this otherwise successful partnership.
Though the novel appeared two years after the collapse of ‘Exi-sensual Games’, the title and content suggest that Runačzek must have been thinking about or actually writing it much earlier than this. The typical view of Runačzek and de Romane has always been that they eschewed novels in favour of computer games. And indeed, their early work would suggest that this was the case. However, the fact that Runačzek moved on from this practice to that which he had always demeaned leads one to ponder either a radical change of mind, or an intriguingly plotted career plan. That is to say, or to enquire – was POBOT always created as a project in its own right and on its own terms, or had one of its creators’ always been thinking beyond the frame, towards another form? I.e. – Was POBOT a research project leading towards Verifying Pobot : the final product? Was Runačzek using ‘Exi-sensual Games’ – a company designed to produce literary computer games – as a means of reaching another destination: the production of computer-game inspired literature?
Such questions demand facts. So here they are. Firstly, there is no doubt that Verifying Pobot is connected to POBOT. This is self-evident. Nor is there any doubt that information received or created by (and through) POBOT turns up within the pages of Verifying Pobot. POBOT was an internet-based game and its creators were perfectly capable of spying on their users. Whether Verifying Pobot tells the story of actual users is unknown; that it uses information created by some users is a certainty – as is the fact that de Romane was not the least bit pleased by Runačzek’s new project. By this I mean to say that de Romane suspected from an early date that Runačzek was not necessarily investing in POBOT for its own benefit, but for the benefit of a side-project (Verifying Pobot). I have very little doubt that it was this that caused a breach between the two; a breach which, if the persisting rumours that de Romane thinks Runačzek’s novel literally ‘copied’ information derived from the game turn out to be true, may yet lead to a legal investigation.
Our thoughts must now turn to the novel. What is Verifying Pobot? Well, as you may have guessed, it is a novel about a computer game, which both imitates and satirises elements of this medium, under-covering the reality behind virtual reality – and aiming, as did the original POBOT, to ask and answer pertinent philosophical questions.
Throughout the novel, Runačzek makes good and amusing use of computer game conventions, splintering novelistic traditions by tempting the reader to move backwards and forwards through the text (containing its fair share of ‘internet’ language – smiley faces and all). There is even a scoring system at one point (which I can’t say I ever understood) as well as the odd image, revealing the author’s seeming disregard for literary customs. On the other hand, this is a novel – and not a computer game. And when all is said and done, the reason that it is a novel is because Runačzek has clearly come to the conclusion that novels provide a better forum for ideas than computer games ever did. His use of internet-inherited techniques is, therefore, somewhat tongue-in-cheek. For ultimately, the simple sentence, the perfect paragraph and the charming chapter win the day. For all the openness that POBOT provided, Verifying Pobot remains the form best suited to containing the information that Runačzek wants to impart. As I discovered from my own foray into alternative realities, the lack of boundaries creates a sense of freedom so great that one feels overwhelmed -and perhaps even restricted – by it. This explains why Verifying Pobot is able to succeed in a way that POBOT was not.
Such an experience is reflected by two of the main characters in the novel, BlueTease14 and *RspbryMnky*. Within the world of POBOT (as related in the novel) these two are attractive adventurers – one boy, one girl – in the friendly environment of an alternative world. The novel, however, decides to situate them not only in this world but also within the real world (such as it is). So, though in the former they are star-struck lovers, making confident assertions as to the nature of God, in the latter they are forlorn middle-aged losers (both male, I’m afraid) who lack any sort of confidence at all. The juxtaposition of their two lives is both hilarious and moving (and all the better for being based, one assumes, on first-hand experience). Needless to say, such a tale of confused-identities cannot fail to strike a chord with the computer-obsessed youth of today, let alone a part-time gamer like myself.
Despite this, it would be wrong to say that Verifying Pobot is a mean deconstruction of POBOT, or a vitriolic satire on the wider world of computer games and their followers. Luckily, Runačzek has not completely fallen out of love with the medium that is focus of his enquiry. As a result, this novel is both a love letter but also, by its very nature, a break-up letter. It recognises the fact that, for all its advantages, the attempt to create literary computer games was, though a valid and useful enterprise, incapable of superseding its inspiration. To wit: to create a truly rich and adequately interactive experience sometimes you need to fall back on tried and trusted methodologies; to accept the inherent rules and boundaries and pitch your bid for freedom upon a secure yet not necessarily over-restrictive playing field.
As far as Camille de Romane is concerned, this conclusion is cowardly. To him, Verifying Pobot is a cop-out: a denial of everything that POBOT and ‘Exi-sensual Games’ ever aimed to achieve. As far as I’m concerned, however, the novel is spot on. There is a welcome lack of spleen to its satire, suggesting that Runačzek’s denial is not driven by malice, but shaped by experience. Whether or not this is what his career was always leading to remains an unanswered question. Whether this represents the pinnacle of his career so far provokes a quick and easy reply. It does.
I could end here, but I don’t. Instead, I end with a quote from another Czech-born writer, the incomparable Pavel Nekrac, from his novel Some Evidence of Silence. As to how it concerns this article I leave to you, the reader, to decide.
Have it your way, but nihilism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Whichever way you look at it, there’s something strangely empty about nothingness. So you’re meant to fill up the void with the fruit of your free will; daub the blank canvas with the bold curves of your decadence – or something like that. Personally, however, I can’t quite get the hang of it. Believe it or not, I may actually like rules. Either that, or I have never quite got round to contemplating, let alone understanding, the complex philosophical concepts behind nothingness. Philosophy can be so dry, after all. Even when it makes its way into literature, the weight of the ideas (or of the language, at least) can be too heavy to bear. This is why I should applaud anyone willing to throw a few handfuls of spice into the melting pot of philosophical misery….
Review by Heidi Kohlenberg
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