by Deck Davis
“I understand why you don’t want to invest more money,” said Lucas, “but thinking about the next decade is short-sighted. We need to think about the next-”
Rudy shook his head. “No, Lucas. We need to think about the here and now. There are enough reserves in our company account for me to take back my initial investment and leave this sinking ship with little more than a bruised ego. The idea is as tempting as a whore in a-”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Rudy. So let’s say that you leave. Then what? Soulboxe is finished?”
“Calm down. I always loved your passion, but only when it is directed at the game and not at me.”
Lucas had to choke down his words. If he lost his temper, this wouldn’t just hurt him, it’d hurt everyone in the company. People would lose jobs, and he didn’t want that on his conscience.
“Now,” said Rudy, “We can rule out replacing Boxe5 with an entirely new AI. It is too expensive, as is rebuilding him for a sixth time. My father always said that a skilled enough craftsman could turn rock into marble. So, can we do that? Can we turn our errant AI into a more acceptable version of himself? It seems the only way forward is if we can work with Boxe5 in his current iteration. Is that possible?”
Lucas sighed. “He’s getting worse. Sending players on quests where there’s no positive outcome, rigged ones that they’re doomed to fail. He’s targeting full-immersion players and leading them to situations where they’ll see some pretty brutal things. He chooses people who have their pain settings turned up as far as they’ll go, and he’s forcing them into situations where they’ll feel it.”
“We have a sadistic AI, then. Can’t you control him?”
“The whole point of Boxe5 was that his intelligence would give him autonomy. We have fail-safes, obviously. We can shut down parts of him so that he can’t create quests, monsters, new buildings, that kind of thing. That means we have to script everything ourselves, and it means we lose dynamism – nothing can be created on the fly.”
“It turns Soulboxe into a generic pile of shit,” said Rathburger. “And there are much cheaper generic piles of shit out there.”
“So, one option is to bring in a team of scriptwriters, hire more devs, and create content ourselves?” said Rudy.
“It isn’t that easy. The best NPCs in the game, the ones that make it feel real, all siphon their intelligence from Boxe. Without him, they’re just cardboard cut-outs.”
“Or they’re empty vessels that talented scriptwriters can pour words into. The appearance of intelligence can be just as convincing as the real thing.”
“Then Soulboxe loses its unique selling point,” said Lucas.
“As I said, people don’t always need something new,” said Rudy.
Lucas was ready for this. “I had the research team send out a questionnaire to all our subscribers. The response rate was 60%, which is pretty good. We asked them things like ‘if Soulboxe removed on-the-fly content creation, would you still play it?’ All kinds of questions like that.”
“And the results?”
“We’d lose around 40% of our high-end subscribers.”
“Which would put us knee deep in elephant crap,” said Rathburger.
Rudy rubbed his forehead. “Your precious AI is vital to our revenue stream, but we can’t modify or replace it to the point we consider it stable.”
“He’s the soul of Soulboxe,” said Lucas.
“You keep referring to him as ‘he’.”
“To all intents and purposes, that’s what he is.”
Rudy’s face reddened, as if he was trying to hold back his boiling rage. “He is a machine, Lucas. Not a pet poodle. It’s this coddling attitude which has gotten us into this mess.”
“If he was just a machine, then we wouldn’t be sitting here. It’s his intelligence that causes the problems.”
“Can you explain?” asked Rudy.
Lucas nodded. “Think about if you took a person from the street. An intelligent, free-thinking person. Then, you locked them in a room with no windows and no means of leaving. All you gave them was a little model toy to play with, where they could create new models as they saw fit and mess around with them. It’d be fun at first, but that would grow old quickly. They’d start to wonder what was outside the room and why they were prevented from seeing it. When they didn’t get answers, they’d start to act out. They’d start destroying their models.”
“Boxe5 is a toddler having a tantrum?”
“If a toddler had the digital equivalent of god-like powers.”
“What are we to do?”
Lucas looked at Rathburger. The two had talked it through for days, and at first Lucas had been against what Eli planned. Eventually he’d relented because he saw no other way. The most surprising thing was Eli’s complete 180 about Dr Osbeck, but Lucas guessed that was desperation coming into play.
“We had a digital psychologist consult with Boxe5,” said Rathburger. “He spent enough time with him to develop a personality profile, and although he can’t get to the root of things, he has a possible solution. One that won’t drain your precious bank account.”
Rudy clasped his hands together and smiled. “Now you have my interest. What do you propose?”
“Dr Osbeck believes that when Boxe5 acts out and then we restrict his freedoms while trying to clear up his mess, we make things worse. He says that we should think of Boxe5 like he’s a teenager going through the rebellious phase. Every time we try to stop it, it’s like pouring gasoline on a fire. We’re acting as authoritarian parents, and it’s making him resist us even more.”
“Sometimes children need discipline,” said Rudy. “My son Thomas didn’t clean up his act until I sent him to military school.”
“We tried that in the form of restrictions and rebuilds, and it didn’t work. When something doesn’t work again and again, it’s time to stop banging your head against the wall.”
“How do we stop banging our heads?” asked Rudy.
Rathburger eyed him. “We remove the wall. Dr Osbeck thinks that we should try encouraging him. If we offer support to his rebellion, if we help it, it might…sort of…get it out of his system.”
Rudy’s eyes shined with derision. “So we let the AI do whatever he likes in the game, screwing around with our customer base to the point that either fear or frustration drives them away. An excellent idea!”
“It’s not like that. We’re going to reason with him. If he wants to play his games, then we give Boxe5 our blessing, but we impose terms.”
Rudy leaned forward. “Terms?”
“We tell him to leave the bulk of Soulboxe and its players alone. To do his job – guide their levels ups, create quests, spawn monsters and loot. But, we give him a player that he can…screw around with. That player will be his incentive to leave the rest of the player population alone; we let him exercise his creativity without fear of us altering him in any way. Believe me, part of him fears that.”
The gaggle of assistants sitting around Rudy talked among each other now. The CEO silenced them with a glare. “Let me get this straight in my mind; you are saying that we tell our all-powerful game AI that he can mess around with one of our players as though he’s a toy?”
“This is all a form of rebellion, if Dr Osbeck is right. Part of the rebellion is against us. The more we push back, the harder he pushes. So, if we give him our blessing, then it won’t be a rebellion at all. Osbeck thinks that if we do this, Boxe5 will get bored with it, and all these feelings will end.”
“What makes you think that Boxe5 will agree?”
“He’s smart enough to know that if he doesn’t, worse things can happen to him.”
Rudy closed his eyes and started mumbling under his breath.
“What are you doing?” asked Lucas.
“I’m getting my story straight for the inevitable lawsuit when the player we choose learns that we used him as a digital guinea pig without his consent.”
Rathburger grinned now, an
d Lucas knew why. This was the part that he disliked intensely.
“Here’s the thing,” said Rathburger. “Lawsuits aren’t a problem because of a handy thing called terms and conditions. Every player signed up with the knowledge they were entering a game where the AI changes things dynamically.”
“Terms and conditions don’t make you invincible,” said Lucas.
Rathburger waved his hand dismissively. “We have more lawyers than a Hollywood movie producer on retainer, and besides, most of our terms are tight enough to protect us. And when they aren’t? In that slight possibility a guy or girl sees dollar signs and wants to take us to court? We’ll tie them up in legalese and keep them out of the courtroom until their grandchildren are measuring them up for their coffins.”
“Nice,” said Lucas. “I never knew you had such a caring streak. Still, winning a lawsuit won’t be much of an umbrella against the hailstorm of accompanying bad PR.”
Rathburger shrugged. “We aren’t talking about real consequences here. Nobody will get hurt beyond whatever pain thresholds they agreed to, and we have already proved that they aren’t harmful in any significant way out of the game. Hell, you’re more likely to cause yourself psychological damage riding a rollercoaster. Nobody will suffer any loss beyond failing a few quests in the game, or losing loot or something.”
“Do you think this will work?” said Rudy.
Rathburger nodded. “The doctor is an expert in his field, even if digital psychology is a relatively new and, some might say, phony one. If anything, we’re pioneering something new here.”
Lucas turned the idea over in his head. It had been simmering there for a while, and he still wasn’t sure. “Boxe5 has been toying with people for months now, and he just gets worse the longer we let him. We have to do something.”
Rathburger nodded. “Back when my Labrador, Balrog, was a puppy, he used to watch me eat. Every mouthful I took, he’d creep forward and forward, slobbering and staring at my food like it was his life’s dream to eat it. He’d keep on doing it until I told him no, and then he’d back off. But then the whole act would start again the next day.”
“What are you saying?” said Rudy.
“That Balrog was testing his boundaries. I got some advice from a friend of mine who used to train dogs for the police. He told me how to train Balrog so that he knew my mealtime was my mealtime, and that he shouldn’t even look at me while I’m chowing down. The way I did that was by teaching him when it was the right time to ask for treats, and when it was wrong. I didn’t ban him from treats altogether.”
“So we train Boxe like he is a dog? Should I go to the butcher’s shop and buy some beef offcuts for him?” said Rudy.
Rathburger grinned. “He’s not a dog, and we need to respect his intelligence every step of the way. But the principle is the same; Dr Osbeck believes we can teach Boxe when it is right to exercise his frustrations, and when it’s wrong. The basis of all of that is to start by offering him a carrot, not a stick. Give him a single player who it’s okay for him to toy with, and through that teach him that the rest of our player base is off-limits. If we do that, we will have our game back.”
The way Rudy’s eyes widened reminded Lucas of cartoons where dollar signs flashed in a character’s face. It made him feel dirty, but he knew he wouldn’t speak up.
As shady as this felt, it shamed him to realize that he’d rather they try it than see everything he’d worked for collapse. That was the problem - his vanity. Without Soulboxe, what was he?
He already knew what. His father had told him the answer once.
“Which player would we choose for this?” asked Rudy.
Rathburger smiled. “We already know, and we didn’t choose him; Boxe5 did. Dr Osbeck put it to him hypothetically. He told Boxe5 to scan his player database and asked him, if you could put all your efforts into playing with the fortunes of one player, who would you choose?”
“And?”
“His choice was a little strange, to say the least.”
CHAPTER 12
‘Look, I know how Lucas felt about PVP zones. They aren’t his bag, and I understand that, you know? But he’s too focused on his dream, his vision.
The way I see it, once you put a game out there, it doesn’t just belong to you, it belongs to the players, too. If they want the option to pummel the ever-loving crap outta each other, then that’s what you give them.
Besides, I’m starting to think Boxe1 might need something new to watch. Does that sound strange? The idea that an AI might not be happy with what we give him?
- Eli Rathburger, Soulboxe co-founder, writing in his blog ‘8-Bit Words from a 2-Bit Mind’.
~
They were trying to sneak up on him. Three of them, crouched down and skulking in the darkness, heading toward his fire like ninja-moths drawn to the light. And if they’d done it to almost anyone else, it would have worked.
Way to go, orcish night vision.
His vision meant they couldn’t catch him off-guard, but why had they tried to do that in the first place? They must have known that they couldn’t attack him at a campfire.
One was wearing a shirt and trousers that were way too thin for the cold Soulboxe nights, and he had a bow in his hand and a quiver on his back. He had three badges floating by his head: an iron arrow, a nickel set of footprints, and a tin model of a man crouched, almost sneaking.
He moved ahead of the others, nimble, more relaxed. The arrow he’d set in his bow glowed green at the tip.
“One of them is an elf,” said Tripp. “Maybe a scout or a hunter. And he can use magic.”
“Or he just bought a magic bow from an artificer,” said Bee.
“I don’t know why he’s keeping an arrow nocked; he can’t hurt me near my fire.”
The elf’s friends were larger than him. One wore the white robes of a cleric, which meant that he was probably a healer. His badges were a nickel sword and a tin cross that you’d see on a hospital sign.
The other was the strangest creature that he’d ever seen. In fact, he couldn’t remember seeing anything like it even after watching hundreds of Soulboxe video streams.
It was humanoid but with the head of an elephant. It had a full tusk on the left of its trunk, and a broken one on the right. Strapped in metal armor and carrying a warhammer bigger than its elven friend, it was as imposing a sight as Tripp had ever seen. A pissed Egyptian god brought to life.
It had two one badges; a grey-silver warhammer, and a nickel book.”
“The warhammer is made from cobalt,” whispered Bee. “One step above the Iron rank. And the warhammer is a brute force skill.”
“What about the book?”
“Loremaster.”
“A loremaster with a warhammer and the face of an elephant. Wow.”
While the elf had a quiver on his back, the elephant-person had one of its own, except this quiver was big enough that a bundle of full-sized spears fit inside it.
“What the hell is it? Some kind of elephant?”
“That’s a Grey Tusk,” said Bee. “One of the old races. They removed it from player selection eight years ago, but anyone who’d already picked it as a race got to keep it. Accounts like that are a hacker’s dream.”
“Let’s see what kind of people our new friends are. They don’t know that I can see them. They might be waiting for me to leave my campfire boundaries so they can stick arrows in my orc ass.”
The three of them had stopped twenty meters away from his campfire, and they were still crouching, no doubt thinking that he couldn’t see them in the dark.
While they seemed to be taking the measure of him, he did the same.
Two things came to mind straight away – they were a party, and they were well-balanced. A scout with magical arrows, a healer, and a player who could take most of the damage, protecting the other two. If so, that was as well-balanced as a three-person party could get.
“What do you think, should I invite them over? No harm making
a few connections.”
“I don’t know,” said Bee. “As soon as you step away from the fire, you’re fair game to them.”
He was going to have to take a chance and show a little faith or let this opportunity go. Then again, why not wait until he got to a town before speaking to people?
It wasn’t as if they were the only players in the game; they were just the first that he’d seen so far. All that meant was that Godden’s Reach wasn’t the most popular of places.
As he watched them, his orc night vision adjusted even more and he could see further across the plains.
He noticed movement. It was a dark shape moving from the east, and holy hell, it was big.
That was when he realized that they weren’t sneaking up on him; they were sneaking to avoid the giant monster spotting them.
“Bee, you see that?” he said.
“What?”
“Over there?” he said, pointing.
“Sorry, I don’t have the same vision as you.”
“Neither do they,” he said, looking at his three guests.
He realized two things now.
One, as the creature moved ever closer, he had seen something like it before. Not in the flesh, but he’d seen it without flesh. This creature was the same as the one the huge bleached skull had belonged to. It had to be.
Two, it might have been gigantic, but it was quieter than he’d have imagined, slinking over the plains and navigating through the night on an unmistakable course to hit the party of three.
He’d once read an article that said when a person is faced with a decision, the brain throttles through its memories with the speed of a librarian on amphetamines, pulling past events from its shelves and trying to relate them to the present event to see if you’d faced something like it before and knew what to do.
Tripp had never sat by a fire and watched some giant monster flying over the plains, silent and deadly like some kind of land-bound Jaws, and ready to pounce on an elf, cleric, and humanoid elephant. His brain was experiencing just the right kind of utter confusion about what to do.
