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Finding Friends in Mark Zuckerberg’s Metaverse

This article appears in One Great Story, a New York-based reading recommendation newsletter. Sign up here to receive it every night.
In September my family and I are moving from our home in Dublin to a beautiful campus on the east coast where I will be teaching for a semester. I grew up in Dublin which meant I had a lot of friends to turn to when I was away from home. The street I live on is friendly: if I want to borrow a shovel or I need someone to take care of my cat, I just have to ask.
Our life in the USA is different, we have a basement for the first time. But we don’t have friends. It seemed that none of the permanent teachers could afford to live in the suburbs where the university placed us. We technically have neighbors, but we never meet them, they only come in the form of gardeners who work the blowers every day.
It was in this strange situation—alone on the mainland, cut off from everyone I knew—that I first decided to try virtual worlds. A large group of friends come to your living room? I think. why not?
When I enter the metaverse, the first thing that strikes me is the people, the avatars, their… where are their fucking legs?
The body rests on the belt of Horizon Worlds, the stronghold of Facebook – sorry, the Meta – in the metaverse. So the price of entry into this virtual paradise is to give up the lower body. Frankly, it makes the Metaverse feel like a cult. leg? We don’t even miss them!
It’s hard not to read about the fact that half of you disappears when you somehow symbolically enter the world of Horizon, and it was at the center of all the mockery of Mark Zuckerberg and Mehta. Obviously, legs that move with the user are difficult to make. Engineers are supposedly working on it, and the people I meet in the metaverse keep telling me “how the legs got there,” how the Narnia creatures whisper to each other, “Aslan is moving.”
I was too busy contemplating my legless torso when I heard laughter from across the room. Picking up the Meta Quest headset, I saw my son enter my office without my knowledge, obviously surprised by my appearance.
He’s right: headphones are clearly anti-social. Once you put on the meta quest, it’s so cut off from the real world that the headset prompts you to delineate a “playground” by drawing virtual boundaries on the ground. This is to prevent me from bumping into furniture, walls, spouse, etc. in the real world while I’m on a VR adventure.
From now on, whenever I get close to the edge of my border, the real world “passes” through the virtual world in a grainy, low-res black and white version, like stills from a 90s horror movie. It’s hard not to suspect that this is how the Meta wants you to see your simulated reality.
In fact, Facebook’s rebranding to Meta seems to signal Mark Zuckerberg’s conviction that reality as a whole will fall out of favor. The Metaverse was not his idea — the name is taken from Neil Stephenson’s 1992 novel Snow Crash — but his company reportedly spent about $36 billion developing it. Zuckerberg envisions the Metaverse as nothing more than the next iteration of the Internet, for which he will control both the hardware (Facebook bought headset maker Oculus in 2014) and software (Meta is buying up a non-virtual reality company).
Once we connect, Meta will have unprecedented access to the lives of users, even to the part of the current life of the company that is not controlled. Make presentations, meet friends, sit back and watch TV – all through headphones. It’s a super monopoly, a super monopoly. Zuckerberg doesn’t just want to block the online experience, he plans to bring it all online.
Until the game paid off. Quest headsets have only sold 20 million units, far from its goal of a billion users. On March 14, Zuckerberg announced that Meta would cut about 10,000 jobs, joining the cut of 11,000 four months ago.
On my first visit, the virtual world seemed a bit deserted, like an abandoned mall, and I don’t usually line up to join the misfits that still inhabit it. However, now that I’m away from my social media, I realize how much hard work has been done by the quick, joking, control conversations I used to have with friends and neighbors. So I was determined to find the true supporters of the metaverse, those who had been left behind while the changing reality continued to exist. They might not be able to lend me a spatula, but I figured that, at least for now, these people would be my people.
When you first enter Horizon Worlds, after a brief seizure warning, you will hear a female voice reassure you that if someone upsets you, you can report it. The voice chuckled and added, “Don’t worry, we won’t tell them you did it!”
Although some people have been persecuted in the world of Horizon, the main problem is children. Headphones should not be used by anyone under the age of 13, but the app is filled with kids taking on their parents’ avatars, meaning conversations are constantly interrupted by (1) overt adults asking in a high voice if you like poop. and (2) vote to remove poop.
After clearing the warning message, I can view a number of “worlds”. The term is misleading because these worlds, most of which are user-created, range from small to very, very small. Technical restrictions limit the number of people in one “instance” of the world to 32 or less. Many of the worlds I visited had no people at all.
I didn’t come here out of loneliness, so for my first trip I chose a world called Party House. The screen turns blue, a peaceful knock is heard and the message appears: READY WORLD. And here I am.
The Party House itself is a square purple building, blocky and primitive, remarkably similar to being made of cybertwins. In fact, most of the world looks like this: whether you’re in the Hipster Café or Winter Wonderland, the architectural style that dominates the entire app can be called “early Minecraft”. There’s a rectangular blue pool you can “walk in” though it’s not particularly useful, and a terrace with a DJ playing house music. The top half wanders around.
A man in a fedora walks past him, his username Nutsacksandwich floating above his head. (I changed the usernames in this post, but not much.)
“He said he wanted to eat my penis,” Nutsaksandwich told me in a shrill, childish voice. This is my first metaverse conversation.
I went to a house where I met a couple from the north of England. The woman continued to make strange gestures with her hands, as if she was trying to dig a hole in the air. “Oh, you’re so naughty,” she said. she’s talking to me. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I’m in bed and my dog ​​is digging under the covers.” This is my second metaverse talk.
As I continued to walk, a strange feeling came over me. It’s boring. I’m bored! When was the last time I was really bored? I don’t think I’ve felt this way since I had a smartphone. It’s actually quite funny, although most of the time it’s just boring. A panel appeared in front of me. Nutsacksandwich is reportedly accompanied by a photo of Nutsacksandwich’s head. Do you want your Nutsacksandwich to burst? I think about this. I decided to leave Nutsacksandwich: I love his energy.
I can’t stress enough how different a Party House is from a Party House. It’s not just amateur low-tech design, it’s not just infrequent attendance and sporadic interactions. It wasn’t in the mood at all. It reminds me of trying to get together with friends via Zoom during self-isolation – all the faces appearing framed on the grid, like contestants on some dull game show with no awards. Like, the complete lack of physicality makes us feel more alienated. from one person to another than ever before.
A man in a hat approached me. His username is impala-expert. I asked him if it was an Impala car or an Impala animal. This seemed to confuse him.
“There are a lot of pretty ladies here tonight,” he said as one woman, or at least an avatar of a woman, walked by in a crop top.
I asked him if he was worried about being followed. With Zuckerberg, you can’t rule out the possibility that the entire Metaverse is some sort of Matrix-style drain of life force. (A Meta rep assured New York that “privacy is an integral part of our product design, and we provide privacy controls so people can control their experience.”)
Now I’m confused. We are in virtual reality. We don’t have corpses. We don’t even have the bottom half.
Whatever his VR-MILF hunting secrets were, the impala expert wasn’t ready to share them. “I think I’ll take a break in the pool,” he said. I watched him walk across the clearing until he came to the blue rectangle representing the pool. Then his avatar was in the pool, leaving only his head above the water, staring at me unblinkingly.
After this stressful journey into cyberspace, my offline life seems more mundane. Literally: we don’t have a car, so we have to walk everywhere. In the morning, my wife and I take our son to his new school. Then one (or both) of us go to the supermarket. Then we went back to school to pick up our son.
I love to walk as much as any other man, but everything is too far. Drenched in sweat, I thought of the light gliding of my Horizon world avatar as it happily hopped between worlds in the metaverse that were always maintained at the same temperature as my air-conditioned office.
Once we found the shortest path through a beautiful forest, we found out that the forest was declared a nature reserve, but so that nature knows who is in charge here, the city planners ingeniously laid the main line of movement on the main line. As a reward for restless shoppers, the journey ends with a view of two malls, a dizzyingly expensive supermarket and Bloomingdale’s. Both have bakeries dedicated to dogs.
Of the three of us, my son adapted the most. He missed his friends and pets; to make matters worse, our house belonged to the Irish Studies department and was decorated with teary-eyed domestic scenes. The first thing that catches your eye upon entering is a quote from playwright J. M. Sing: “It’s very lonely to be forever away from Ireland.”
I assured my son that he would make new friends, it just takes time. He was skeptical. It’s hard to take advice from a guy whose social life is currently the equivalent of standing in an office with a bucket on his head.
One night I put headphones on my son. I was still explaining the basics when he raised his hand. “I think Pinglefur is an impostor,” he muses.
He didn’t answer. I leaned vaguely over his shoulder. Small voice problems are not audible from the headset speakers. My son nods. Under the headphones, a smile appeared at the corners of his lips. “Just my dad,” he said.
Comedy is popular in the Metaverse, and the Soapstone Club is one of the most popular places in the Horizon world. There I met Okidriver, who is the producer of the club, which means he helps with events and explains to newcomers how the place works. Meta, which reportedly insists on “almost Disney-level security” for its users, told me that the comedies here are great for family viewing. “Think of six in the evening on regular TV,” he said. Turning to the billboard, he scans the upcoming performances, offering words of encouragement for each scene: “Morkmindy, I highly recommend, you’ll laugh until you cry.”
The second billboard unusually featured a photo of a real-life comedian. I found myself a little in awe of it, as if for a moment I forgot that I, too, was a human and not a cartoon. DRY BAR by SOAPSTONE, read the billboard. Cast: Drew Lynch, Alex Velluto, Daphnic Springs. The world-famous comedian plays an avatar in virtual reality.
“We were expecting a lot of people,” said Okedriver. “These are nationally recognized comedians.” He lowered his voice. “Probably we’ll see Mark Zuckerberg.”
- Well. He came first and sat down in the audience. He muffled himself and did not speak. I was working here that night.
According to Okidriver, Zuckerberg’s username is TheHumanZuck. (I didn’t point out to Okidriver that I also saw Kim Jong-un’s avatar at the club, and that during Zuckerberg’s VR public appearances, his username was either Mark or Zack.)
Soapstone’s interior resembles a very simple club sketch, with stools, tables and a bar in the back. Above the stage is the motto of the club: We are all here because we are not here. Okidriver points to two leaderboards on the wall. The first is the highest rated comedian of the week; I believe that Morknmindy is only one person here in the first place. The other is the supporter leaderboard, with Okidriver ranked 5th. To become a supporter, you need to donate $10 to the club – “real money,” Okydriver explains. “And that opens up a lot of features.”
It’s all getting pretty obscure, but as far as I can tell, being a fan basically means you can take part in the leaderboard, which is sort of like competing to be the club’s best superfan. Producing like Okeedriver does now gets you points, cheering comedians gets you points. “Every time you show up here, you get points. It’s a great system,” he said.
The absolute pinnacle of success in Soapstone is to win a T-shirt with the address of the club. “Real T-shirt. They’ll send it home to you,” Okeedriver says in a tone that makes the real world, his real home, feel so far away and lonely.
Gamification is everywhere these days—in the classroom, at work, on your daily bike rides—but using it in a comedy club seems particularly counter-intuitive. The late anthropologist David Graeber spoke of the “basic communism” that holds societies together, the many small acts of kindness that people do to each other without thinking, every day. Someone will show you the way, someone will light your cigarette, someone will show you their virtual comedy club. I’m sure Okidriver is obviously a kind, caring guy who has invested a lot of money in his club and he will show people around for free. But since the club introduced this points system, its reputation has been effectively monetized.
“Yes,” Okedriver replied cautiously when I asked that question. “Though the point is that you can always buy points.” He pointed to the top of the leaderboard. “Texasmarshall came in today. I’m standing here and he’s just pouring money in, three times 60 cents,” there’s empty pathos in his voice, as if he’s still considering it. “So now he’s number one without lifting a finger.”
Ever since virtual reality took off, corporate gurus have been scurrying around in virtual worlds, waiting for something specific enough to invest in, issuing press releases to reassure shareholders they have it. However, none of the cheerleaders made the virtual universe sound too enticing. Some of them are outright anti-social.
In an article published by CoinDesk, Janine Yorio and Zach Hungate of Everyrealm, “an innovation firm and investment fund focused on the Metaverse,” argued that the Metaverse “will allow us to do things we can’t do in reality. It’s like a video game. We can destroy things and kill people without fear of punishment or retribution. We can afford to push cultural and social norms beyond traditional boundaries, under the guise of anonymity and invulnerability in the metaverse. We can fly, experimenting with drugs, deceiving our partners.”
To be clear, these guys think the Metaverse is a great idea. According to Yorio and Hungate, the main attraction of virtual worlds is that none of the usual rules and obligations we have to each other apply. The real world has infinite laws and restrictions, primarily to demonstrate the infinite plasticity of the virtual world, it is leisurely carnal partners who are no longer allowed to limit your greatness.
However, in my experience, this subversion of social norms has a strange smoothing effect on VR interactions. This is what happens on Facebook, where companies throw family members, longtime friends, and casual acquaintances into your feed — strong and weak ties, to use sociological terms — so that over time you can’t tell them apart, no longer able to tell who your real friends, or even who your real friends are.

 


Post time: Mar-20-2023