New republics

There was a time when libertarians fantasized about starting their own countries on floating platforms. Now anyone can do it from home, on a digital platform. Some of these new countries are quite big. Facebook now has 1.7 billion users, more citizens (if you want to look at it that way) than China, and more adherents than Catholicism. 

If you're thinking that websites like this are just games ('Twitter isn't real life' etc.), you'd be right. But games are a serious business. Game designer Reed Berkowitz recently explored how QAnon (whose shaman is pictured) might have grown out of the same sorts of incentives that are generated by live-action role-playing and alternate reality games. People are given a quest (Who is Q?) and the motivation to want to complete it (this will show you the way thing really are). They build a world around them without a graphics card in sight.

This may sound like a new idea, or at least an eccentric one, but it's actually a highly familiar one in political science and economics, at least in the branch of economics known as the New Institutional Economics (NIE). The Nobellist Douglass North defined institutions as 'the rules of the game' in a given society. He may have meant it as a metaphor, but there's no reason why the rules of the game can't be the rules of a literal game.

Or, say, the ways a website is set up - its terms of service, its modalities, its incentive structures. The differences between social media sites might seem like just a matter of choosing different products - Twitter allows you less space per message; this bus company lets you drink coffee onboard. But there's more going on. The different sites have a vibe, a style, even (by now) a history - and we act differently when we're on (or in) them.

That's partly because of the multiplication of incentives within these worlds. I saw a link to Berkowitz's piece on Justin Murphy's Twitter feed. Murphy left academia, as he says, 'to spend more time on research and teaching,' and he seems increasingly interested in online learning not just a site for educational content, but for educational incentives. That last thing was what MOOCs were lacking. Murphy will send you an email a day (if you want him to) to help you learn R (What is R?). Khan Academy and other sites give you points, badges, etc. so that you keep levelling up in the game of Knowledge.

Meanwhile, in the world of real games (whatever that means), video games are apparently getting longer and increasingly nesting 'micro-transactions' within them to get you to pay up for a snazzier helmet, a deadlier weapon, or a more interesting adventure. (From what I can tell, this is one of the complainers' main complaints about the beautiful Assassin's Creed Odyssey.) We're long past the point at which companies have started selling real-world products in digital universes like Second Life (in fact, that's apparently something Reed Berkowitz used to do for a living). We're surely not far from Borgesian 'games' that electro-shock your brain into suffering or ecstasy as you proceed bravely through their new world.

But we're off on a side-quest now, so let's go back to something I wrote before. The different social media sites that already exist, I said, 'have a vibe, a style, even (by now) a history - and we act differently when we're on (or in) them.' If this reminds you of countries, well, that was sort of the point. Diving into an online community is kind of like visiting a foreign country and immersing itself into its exotic ways, its alien norms.

The reason countries used to be so different was because they had different pasts that led to different institutions, norms, customs - a different cultural infrastructure that in turn helped shape the way people were. I'm old enough to remember a time when people would talk openly about the way different countries (and its inhabitants) were, and even if some of this was ignorant or over-confident, some of it seemed about right. It had to be, in a sense - if changing laws or customs has any power to change behaviours, countries with different laws and customs should have a different vibe.

Of course, they still do, to a great extent, and this should remind us of something. The kinds of incentive structures nations have built up over the centuries are pretty formidable, and some of the axes they wield (like laws) ultimately trump the structures set up by social media companies. Twitter can oust Trump from its platform, true, but Twitter still ultimately exists at the pleasure of the US and other governments. Nation-states aren't going away any time soon, and their age-old institutions and norms continue to shape us in profound ways.

Still, sites like the United States of America are starting to seem a bit last century. If it's incentives and information that shape people, especially as they move like questers through whatever spaces open before them, trying to make meaning out of their lives - if that's what is forming individuals and communities, Arizona and Invercargill are really no match for the world wide web. What we'll have - what we to some extent already have - will be new republics shaped online, with new compatriots that are as different, and sometimes as hostile, to each other as Spaniards and Swedes were in 1634. 

The only difference is that this time, the citizens of these new republics - dressed differently, speaking different and mutually unintelligible languages, worshiping different gods - won't be separated by channels or ranges, but will be living side-by-side. And when fighting breaks out, as it has already started to, old-timers speaking of 'internal' or 'civil' war won't seem alarmist, but just quaint. 

How the attention economy is sucking our will to platform

 

People (like the economist Ashley Hodgson) have long been talking about 'the attention economy.' When I first heard about it, it sounded liberatory and utopian: with the advent of the internet, the theory went, people would be paid as a kind of tribute for work they'd chosen to do, kind of like how you leave coins for a busker. 

Nowadays, the attention economy has more dystopian overtones. A friend of mine from college worked for years for a company that built super-computers to calculate the value of bits of space on the internet and bid against other super-computers in instantaneous, online options. Apparently that kind of thing is going on all the time, humming along in vast rows of air-conditioned calculation.

And more than that: basically everyone in the developed world now, from big tech companies to online sex workers, is trying to get your attention. (Me too, sort of.) OK, they may not be aiming at your attention in particular, but, in general, the more attention the better.

Of course, that was always sort of the case. Vendors in markets from time immemorial have shouted at passers-by to try to get them to buy their goods. Then there was advertising, which obviously didn't start with the internet. Getting someone's attention has always been the first step to getting some of their money.

As with other aspects of life, in some ways what the internet has done is simply speed everything up and expand it to a global scale. But social media especially has also introduced a new form of currency in the form of likes, followers, and so on. In the world of the bird app, or of the codex of visages, it's the man with many followers who's king.

And online publications like Quillette and Vox have, obviously, gained influence (and income) by gaining re-tweets rather than by selling collections of the articles in the form of glossy magazines. This has led to one of those little features of online life that runs up against the norms of anybody with a liberal education from more than 10 years go: people refusing to share links to a piece they then condemn.

The reason that seems so weird is that there used to be a strong norm in intellectual life that you didn't hide books or articles or try to stop their circulation. Imagine if I'd said to my fellow students 15 or 20 years ago 'I've read this book I strongly disagreed with but which has been influential; I therefore won't name it, and in fact I've withdrawn it from the library and hid it under a bush so that it won't circulate further.' They would have thought I was bonkers, not to mention that I was curtailing open debate and infringing on their own freedom to read what they saw fit.

I do think all these points still hold today for those who refuse to link to pieces they hate; but I can also see where they're coming from. They're right that clicks help websites, in a way that lending someone a book didn't help Penguin or Anthony Kenny. They're anxiously aware of the importance of attention in the new ecosystem we now live in - and they're keen to deny its oxygen to their enemies. 

All of this might, to some extent, help explain the recent vogue for de-platformings - that is, preventing people from hearing someone speak on campus because you don't like them or what they have to say. This kind of thing is yet another phenomenon that even people as young as this blogger tend to find pretty peculiar - it's another thing that, I think, most of my fellow undergraduates in the first few years of the millennium would have seen as obviously not the way to behave.

One way of looking at what's going on with de-platformings is to think about what the de-platformers think they're doing. One of the things they think they're doing, I would submit, is akin to not linking to a Quillette article. They see their campuses like their chirrup or mug-scroll feeds, and they don't want them to contribute to funnelling more attention towards Christina Sommers (or whoever). 

I remember hearing one of the bullies who tried to shut down Sommers' talk at Lewis & Clark Law School  saying something like 'You already know what she's going to say from YouTube.' Again, she's still wrong to act in the repressive way she did - Sommers still had a right to speak, and the students to hear her - but I think I now understand a bit more about why that student was acting as she was. 

Back in the day, Bjorn Lomborg (or whoever) coming to speak was interesting partly because you got something you didn't get from reading his articles or books. Nowadays, you can easily access recordings of public intellectuals online. But the mention of YouTube, I think, also suggests that the student was thinking of Sommers' appearance very much in internet terms. She didn't see the talk as a source of ideas or as an experience - she saw it as a kind of bid in a game whose point is to amass the most attention-chips. She saw it as she might have viewed a fellow student sharing a Sommers YouTube talk on social media. 

Christina Sommers giving a talk, Bruce Gilley publishing an article - back in the last millennium the obviously correct reaction to such things would have seemed, to most sane individuals, even those who disagreed with them, not much. Maybe they would have gone along and asked a critical question; maybe they would have written a letter to the student paper. Other people paying attention to such things didn't seem much of a threat.

On the online world, though, especially on social media, life is a high-stakes (OK, low-stakes, but it feels high-stakes) battle for attention. Attention accruing to your ideological rival empowers them and thus seems to threaten your own views and values. This economy of attention has become a kind of vortex, not only sucking previously rather somnolent groups like classicists into it, but also exerting its sucking effect on what's left of the offline world. The online economy of attention is sucking at our universities like a horrific hair-cutting 'solution'; and it's sucking at our will to let people explore ideas. 

Epic drop

A few months ago, it was announced that Oxford is proposing to drop Homer's Iliad and Vergil's Aeneid as compulsory first-year texts. I found this particularly interesting, since I did Classics at Oxford, and hence studied the two texts in question in my first couple of terms. In fact, though by the time I started college (2002), I don't think we were required to read the whole of the Aeneid in Latin (only 8 books out of 12, if memory serves), the whole of the Iliad in Greek was still compulsory. I believe that requirement was watered down as well the following year, to 22 books out of 24. I'm thus one of the last hundred or so people to have read the whole of the Iliad at Oxford in my first term (and the following vacation - I have a bittersweet memory of working through Hector and Achilles' duel on Christmas Day). And I'm definitely among a dwindling number of people anywhere who've read the whole thing in the original. Looking back, I feel quite ambivalent about the whole experience, as I do about my degree as a whole.

First off, it's worth pointing out how unusual it is to read that much Greek these days. Even when I was doing my PhD exams in the US, we weren't asked to read either of the Homeric epics complete, only a few books. Some European Classics undergraduates from outside of Oxford will have read that much by the time they finish their first degrees, but not many, and North American Classics majors will be lucky to have read more than a couple books all the way through in Greek. Is this a boast? In part, yes. Reading the whole of the Iliad through took me a lot of time and effort - at least an hour a day for months. It did give me a deeper experience of the work; nothing quite brings home the futility and horror of war like reading through endless descriptions of pitiless bronze slicing through people's limbs. But it was also frustrating and deeply stupid.

That is, the way we were asked to do it was. One of the problems with Oxford's Classics course is that it's still slowly coming down from a 19th-century high in which it could be taken for granted that anybody embarking upon it would have spent the lion's share of their schooling on learning the living daylights out of Greek and Latin. (My favorite example of just how nuts they went on that is Aldous Huxley's reminiscence of spending a full day every week during his time at Eton just on Greek composition.) In those days, first-year undergraduates probably could just read through Homer without much help. (William Gladstone would later look down on the undergraduates who came after him for being able to have recourse to cribs like lexica - he, of course, improvised his own vocabulary lists, which built character.) Nowadays, things are different, even among the two hundred or so undergraduates who turn up having done A-Level Greek.

I know, since I was one of them. I turned up with an A (the top grade in those days!) and having read Iliad 16 as a set text, and...couldn't really read the Iliad to save my life. I did make use of all the aids I could find - lexica (sorry Gladstone), commentaries, and so on. But Homeric Greek is quite hard, and I still think it makes very little sense to ask first-year undergraduates to read more than half of it on their own. In fact, I'm increasingly convinced of that, since I've been teaching Greek to undergraduates for going on ten years now, and (somewhat to my relief), they find reading Greek hard too. They need a lot of help, and there are a lot of things you might well want to ask about or discuss along the way, so we tend to move through texts quite slowly.

So it might be all to the good to move the Iliad to the second part of the course ('Greats'), where students particularly keen on Homer can work on it with more attention, and with their Greek in a better state. (The old 'Early Greek Hexameter' course would seem to be just the place.) That would also give students more choice in general. There's a macro version of this point that's been ably put by Solveig Lucia Gold: the Oxford Classics course is in general quite narrow compared to North American-style à la carte degrees. I'm definitely among those who think UK degrees could and should become more like that; in the meantime (as Gold notes), both systems have their strengths and weaknesses.

One of the strengths of the European system is that it allows students who want to to specialize much more quickly, and to get a really solid grounding in what they've chosen to study. That's nowhere more evident than in the Oxford 'Literae Humaniores' course, in which reading the Iliad and Aeneid has always been only the first step in a very extensive tour of Greco-Roman culture (especially its literary texts). And if you want a really solid grounding in Greco-Roman culture, it makes an awful lot of sense to start by reading a lot of Homer, who was always seen by subsequent Greeks as both the first and the best of their poets. Homer may not have quite been their Bible or their Koran (though theological readings of Homer were a thing, his text wasn't the Revelation of a monotheistic religion); but he was their Chaucer and their Shakespeare at once. The best comparison is probably to say that he was like Dante for the Italians.

It's also nice, I might add, to read whole works. I don't know if this is a dirty secret, but this is getting to be something that classicists very rarely do, at least at undergraduate level. I know, because I'm one of the instructors failing to get through whole texts in the time allotted to me. But I don't blame myself - it takes time to prepare and discuss these texts, and that means it can be hard to get through even a play in a single, six- or seven-week block of classes. Arguably, though, it does make sense for people getting majors in Greek literature (or even Greek or Classics) to have read one or two works all the way through in the original language by the time they finish.

That, of course, needn't mean it's the Iliad students have to read all the way through. They could read one or two shorter works entire. And shorter works make up most of the rest of Greek literature, including, come to think of it, the Odyssey. Why didn't they make me read the Odyssey in my first term? The conventional answer is that the Iliad was always considered the weightier and greater work in antiquity, and while that may be true, the Odyssey was hardly straight-to-DVD either, at least not to the point of justifying me being made to read 24 books of one epic and 0 of the other.

This brings us to one of the reasons that Oxford has given for proposing this change. The main reason I've seen is that this will make things easier for female students, for a range of reasons. One is that they might be less into all the killing that takes place in the Iliad than the lads. I think that's true - after all, preference for rough-and-tumble play is one of the most well-documented of the many natural differences in interest and disposition between men and women, and that seems to be reflected in differing tastes for things like violent movies. The most I think this argument would justify, though, is for students to be given a choice between the Iliad and the Odyssey. Then students, male or female, could choose to spend their time on what most called to them - the harrowing world of the Iliad, or the magical narratives of the Odyssey.

Oxford's main line of reasoning, though, appears to go as follows. More boys than girls take A-Level Greek and Latin. That's true, especially for Greek, with most of the 200 or so pupils who take A-Level Greek coming from all-male boarding schools (which was also, by the way, the case for me). Because of that, male students will on average have a big advantage in reading through the Iliad and the Aeneid in their first two terms. That's also true. Therefore, the argument runs, we shouldn't make understanding those two epics such a major part of the first phase of the degree ('Mods'). That's where I'm not so sure.

One reason is that if having done A-Level Greek gives you an advantage with Homer and Vergil, it'll also give you an advantage with all the other texts on the course (which has a lot to do with reading Greek and Latin texts). If students from certain schools have already read some Homer, students who haven't could be put at even more of a disadvantage by not having a thorough exposure to these fundamental works at an early stage. Besides, Oxford already has a series of variations of the traditional Classics course for students who've done A-Level Latin but not Greek, Greek but not Latin, or neither.

In the end, I don't really mind whether Homer and Vergil's martial epics remain compulsory for first-year students at Oxford. I don't think it would be a disaster if they didn't, and obviously there are bigger issues out there. But if the proposed change doesn't concern me all that much, some of the reasoning behind it does. In the end, it may be that reading Greek and Latin, like other advanced skills - chemistry, maths, or playing football or an instrument to a high level - is the kind of thing that you get better at if, for whatever reason, you've been able to spend more time on it. To what extent it might make sense to change the requirements of highly competitive training programmes for people who've done less of these things - well, that's a complicated topic, and one best left for another time. But the answer's probably not 'to an infinite extent.'