Author: viboe

I was going to begin my blog post with something along the lines of “While participating in the work, Bury Me, My Love I found that…” but then I realized “participating” may not be quite the right word. I think of participation as an active thing, a way we contribute, perhaps with some degree of intentionality. In some important ways, the user does participate in Bury Me, My Love; we receive the messages on our phones and then we have to choose how to respond to Nour. Our replies in turn influence the trajectory of Nour’s journey. 

Although we participate in the game through our responses, I felt as though this contribution was mediated in certain ways. Or, if not our participation, perhaps our full-immersion in the work. For example, I found myself distracted by my assumed identity as Nour’s husband. While I may not have made different choices if I were playing as a female friend of Nour’s, I did have to remind myself that I was supposed to be participating as if I were sort of responsible for Nour because of the nature of our relationship. I also felt that my participation was mediated at the level of the text(message). Sometimes I felt like neither of the options were what I might say myself, mostly because of tone or word/emoji choice. Additionally, when some texts were sent without my decision, I felt as though my active participation waivered. However, some of these instances seemed to try to mirror human behavior. For example, at one point, we send a typo, “Hang in tree!” instead of “hang in there.” Could we view such events as instances of dysfunctionality? How else is Bury Me, My Love an example of the dysfunctional? Perhaps political in its individualized depiction of the refugee crisis, which disrupts the popular portrayal of nameless masses far away from us. 

What remains a topic of international conversation now takes place as a dialogue between two imagined people through an app for a small fee. Although the work’s intention may be to expose a wider audience to the experiences of refugees, I’m curious if others felt vaguely voyeuristic while interacting with it? Is there a danger of essentializing the refugee experience through these generated text messages? Can an argument be made that the work commodifies the experience of a refugee? 

Manovich’s “Database” touches on some of the questions or issues I’ve had with some of the electronic literature we’ve encountered. Mainly, I feel as though I often comment on how a work does not seem to have much of a narrative structure, or that I don’t feel compelled to continue exploring the work if it seems incoherent. In his discussion of database and narrative, Manovich argues, “why should an arbitrary sequence of database records constructed by the user result in ‘a series of connected events caused or experienced by actors’?” (228). Manovich concludes that “database and narrative do not have the same status in computer culture” (228). My understanding of Manovich’s argument is that he does not think narrative is as critical to understanding digital platforms as is the database, which is the root of any narrative that may form. 

In my previous post, I referenced Rabinowitz’s “Rules of Reading” and I think they remain relevant here. One of Rabinowitz’s rules is that of Coherence, which encourages readers to be generous in their evaluation of a work. I’m curious if others think that Manovich is asking us to disregard this Rule of Coherence when we discuss computer culture? If so, I might counter his point that the Rule can still apply but that we must become generous readers in a new way; instead of giving allowances to the text’s coherency for example, maybe we can extend our generosity to appreciate the database itself, that thing he argues is the backbone of these works anyhow. 

I enjoyed Harris’ The Whale Hunt for a few reasons. I’m definitely a visual learner so databases don’t often appeal to me. Therefore, I really appreciated Harris’ innovative take on what he refers to as an “experiment in human storytelling.” Through the photographs, Harris has created a sort of database but it is still grounded in a narrative or connecting thread, depending on how a user chooses to navigate the collection. The images could likely stand alone as a visual medium but the captions, heartbeat timeline, and metadata certainly enhance how we experience the database. The project reads almost as a very advanced 1 Second Everyday project, which I think makes the work seem more accessible and engaging.

Of all the tracery narratives we looked at in class, I felt most drawn to the Missed Encounters generator. I think this narrative outline stuck with me in particular because of both its comedic potential and its meta-like qualities. The interactions and observations described in the randomly generated encounters seem to mimic the random-ness of the generated narrative system itself. One missed encounter may seem so important and singularly impactful, but on tomorrow’s walk a new story may present itself—the generator goes to work again.

In contrast, I did not find either “This is How You Will Die” or “Taroko Gorge” as engaging. In the case of “This is How You Will Die,” I think I became distracted with the seemingly dated interface that did not appeal aesthetically. “Taroko Gorge” also presented a challenge in that I found the scrolling text made it difficult to focus on any narrative structure or flow. In Electronic Literature, Rettberg points out that electronic literature now focuses on the “creation of more consciously aesthetic poetic works that explore different modes of procedural and aleatory structure” (38). In consideration of this manifesto, and my above case-study of sorts, I would determine that when in search of a Tracery narrative, I value an actual narrative of sorts–as displayed in Missed Encounters—and a visual display that does not distract from the text itself. 

I am also reminded of Peter Rabinowitz’s “Rules of Reading” that we discussed in class. The Rules of Signification and Coherence seem particularly relevant here. For example, with “Taroko Gorge,” the Rule of Signification prompts us to interpret what we notice, such as the moving text and the patterns in the generated words. The Rule of Coherence reminds us to be generous readers, assuming that the text is supposed to make sense and that deviations are intentional. Keeping these Rules of Reading in our back pockets, we can explore new imaginings of literature, that often at first appear only loosely related to literature we’re used to. However, we can also put these Rules to the side to allow for variables such as the creator’s intent. A conscious decision to either play by these rules or to suspend them empowers readers to bring their reading skills to the table, while also allowing for a new mode of reading and exploring a text. 

When I first tried to explore Matthew Kirkpatrick’s “A Moment Ago,” I thought the website wasn’t working because of the delayed loading process. However, once I’d reopened the browser, there was the work! I think my initial impatience with the application is indicative of our expectations of games in the digital age; we expect things to be available immediately and often become frustrated when things take longer than a few moments. Once I’d given “A Moment Ago” time to collect itself, I found it very intuitive in terms of interactivity. Unlike games such as “Shade” or “The Baron,” the user does not have to guess at what is required of them and can therefore participate to their own satisfaction, instead of trying to ‘win’ or complete the game. On a metaphorical level, I also think the work functions as a demonstration of how the news today can be overwhelming to the point of incomprehension. Just as Kirkpatrick’s work jumbles snippets of content to form a conglomerate of ‘news,’ sometimes mainstream news reflects a world that could be considered unrecognizable. 

I also appreciated the opportunity to hear from Matthew Kirkpatrick in person. Sometimes the digital universe promotes anonymity in a way that de-personalizes the narrative experience. Hearing about his inspiration and construction process behind “A Moment Ago” somehow made the game seem less transient and fleeting; the game felt more significant when I knew a real person had considered topics such as the regenerative nature of news and its role in the digital age. 

Staying with the theme of face-less-ness in our digital world and wanting quick results, I am reminded of the recent technological troubles at the Iowa Caucus for the 2020 Democratic candidate. It is my understanding that this year, the DNC tried to use an app to report caucus results. However, technical difficulties caused discrepancies in the reporting. Caucusing is often characterized by its inherently physical nature–goers often must stand for hours in support of their candidate. Even with the app, caucus goers still had to show up for their candidate but I remain curious about the intersection between an event grounded in physical participation and the complications of the event’s technological use. Was this experience influenced by the introduction of (defective) technology? Do we see this clash of the physical and digital as something that is inevitable or something to be worked through and improved upon? In a recent reload of “A Moment Ago,” mention of the Iowa caucus appears; the digital and material worlds continue to collide.

In “The Many Forms of Interactivity,” Ryan dissects the phenomena of ‘interactivity,’ suggesting that the term is not so straightforward as it may first appear. In her discussion of the varying types of interactivity–the variety of which could constitute several blog posts–Ryan states that “the purpose of interactivity is to probe the field of the possible for its own sake” (163). This quote summarizes my current feelings towards the field of online narration: overwhelmed with the vast possibilities. However, I am also excited by the results of comparing this new digital field with the field of tactile literature, of which I am familiar. A close look at a few of Ryan’s forms of interactivity reveals new meaning between these forms of literature. 

Within her discussion of ‘Interactive Structures,’ Ryan touches on ‘The Vector,’ which is the most similar to narrative in that it is linear and causal. Ryan proposes that “there is still something magic about summoning new information to the screen as a result of physical action–magic because it takes hidden, mysterious code to mediate between the gesture of the hand and its visible effect” (165). This quote reminded me of our discussion in class about whether we participate in online games for the narrative storyline or to feed our fascination with the technological structure of the game. I also wonder if we have this same thought-process in regards to printed literature? While I’ve often wondered how online stories are formed, I can’t recall a time that I’ve questioned the process of writing a novel. I think this distinction between reading for plot versus experience also feeds into Ryan’s discussion of the levels of interactivity; she divulges that game players often differ from traditional readers in that they do not play for the narrative story but rather for the aesthetics of the game’s competition (181). 

Ultimately, I am intrigued by the malleability of online narration that printed literature does not always afford. How would the experience of reading change if novels took on ‘The Network’ format in which multiple nodes allow us to bypass chronological narration (i.e. meet again with a character who had died in a previous story node (167))? Similarly, how would ‘The Vector,’ category’s ability to incorporate audio and additional documents enhance our relationship with print? Is it the responsibility of print literature to ‘keep up’ with the advances of the digital age or can the traditional ways prevail? Perhaps throughout the course of this class we will find that such a dichotomy need not exist.