What Slay the Spire can Teach About Digital Media Access Decisions

When I heard that iTunes was scheduled for destruction, I was baffled and alarmed. I have since learned that the service is being split and re-branded, in a sort of platform-mitosis. But I had several conversations in which my interlocutors were not persuaded of the merits of media ownership over streaming media. Having collected my thoughts, and faced with Google’s Stadia announcement as well as even the phantasmal threat of an iTunes closure, I hope to make a case here that media ownership reduces wildly unpredictable and uncontrollable elements of media consumption.

Slaying The Spire, With Just a Little Luck (Or a Lot of It)

Slay the Spire is a rare case in which combining a lot of ideas into a game doesn’t make the game feel chaotic and confusing. The game consists of progressing through the levels of an eponymous spire, each level consists of some encounter or event—very, very often, a combat event. Combat in this game is a resource-management card game: using a limited pool of “energy,” cards are played that either deal damage or prevent damage from being taken. Each card costs a different amount of energy, so strategic choices have to be made to optimize offense and defense. At the end of a combat, the player is presented with three choices for a new card to add to the deck. The same deck is carried through the spire, so each completed combat presents an opportunity for new cards for future encounters.

Slay the Spire gets its replay value from the unpredictable factors that permeate the game. There is randomness within the combat encounter, as a player’s options are defined by the cards that are drawn from the deck on any given turn. Then there is further randomization in the events themselves (what enemies you fight, if any, on any particular level of the Spire). Slay the Spire adds randomness in the building of the player’s deck: there are no guarantees that you will even have the option to add a certain card to your deck in a particular run of 50 levels in a Spire. (I once spent an entire run through a Spire trying to assemble a deck centered around one specific card that would greatly amplify my defensive capabilities—I never even saw that card, and inexplicably still got to the final level.) And I haven’t even discussed the role of Relics in the game, which can provide small bonuses or fundamentally alter game mechanics. All of these unpredictable, randomly-generated chances and choices give the game replay value and make it interesting, fun, and challenging. Putting choices out of a player’s control can be an element of a great game, but it’s not a part of a great day.

 

Unpredictable Elements

There are a lot of components involved in the everyday digital tasks that fill (and sometimes sustain) our lives. The device has to work properly, it has to connect to a network, the network has to function, and we also rely on the server that hosts the data we want. Anything from dropping a cell phone to a power outage to an unplugged cable somewhere in a distant city can cause the entire process to fail. It is really amazing and awe-inspiring that the entire system works as well as it does. Of course, sometimes, something goes wrong.

For purposes of today’s discussion, I think it’s helpful to divide the possible problems into two categories: those in the user’s control, and those outside of the user’s control. So, whether I charge my cell phone, whether I spill water on my computer, whether I use a program correctly—those are, practically speaking, in the domain of the user. However, the city’s electrical power grid is not something a user can single-handedly maintain or repair. Similarly, the user cannot control conditions at a distant server farm, or control the telecommunications network that links the user to those servers.

This, it seems, is where I diverge from so much of my demographic cohort. I don’t want my access to media to rely on these two additional components (telecommunications and data-holding servers). Maybe I would feel differently if I had better experiences, but I have repeatedly been unable to play games or watch movies because at least one of these components has failed. I have encountered this setback for over a decade- in some cases, I have experienced it daily, over the course of months. In contrast, when I think back to those halcyon days in which I owned my media, the only obstacle was a scratched DVD or a VHS tape that was just too-well-loved (we all have a childhood story of the tape that we watched so many times that the playback became warped and distorted).

Conclusion

The unpredictable nature of the available choices in Slay the Spire keeps an otherwise repetitive game novel and engaging. By forcing the player to consider various probabilities and possibilities, the game creates challenge and the kind of frustration that invites a player to learn, try again, and do better next time. I cannot understand the kind of person who willingly invites this kind of challenge and frustration into the process of trying to listen to music or watch a movie. Conversely, if a player had control over any of these random elements in Slay the Spire, the game would be easier. For both Slay the Spire and media access, generally, the same rule applies: the more control one has over the variables, the less challenging the experience.

There are other issues implicated in this debate that I didn’t touch on: the data privacy questions that come with streaming and DRM protections, the reasonable efforts of artists and publishers to protect their copyrights and profit from their works, the legal status of digital goods, etc. Those issues deserve consideration (which is why I have written about them before and will do so again), but I wanted to keep my focus narrow for the sake of clarity. My perspective on this question can be distilled to one personal point: I do not feel that there is evidence to support the claim that US telecommunications networks are more reliable than I am. I simply trust myself more than I trust those corporations, their services, and their infrastructure. Likewise, I trust myself more than I trust the media companies that provide the platforms and media. This is true on a day-to-day basis (for telecom), and it is true for long-term planning (media providers make no promises that they will last longer than my interest in the media they provide).

I can trust electricity providers—they have proven themselves. Power outages certainly do occur, but their frequency, cause, and duration are within acceptable parameters.* Maybe it comes down to what inconveniences, unknowns, and probabilities we are willing to accept. I can live in a world where my electricity is out for maybe 30 minutes per year. I’m not excited to choose a world in which I can access my own leisure at the leisure of so many other people.

 

 

 

 

*The fact that power failures necessarily cause network failures would be a meaningful riposte if my point were strictly confined to unadjusted uptime comparisons.

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Capitol Records, LLC v. ReDigi, Inc.: No Re-Selling Digital Material

While this case will probably never be considered a landmark case in copyright law, it typifies, for me, the kinds of new issues that arise in IP law as the world changes. It seems that an online store (“ReDigi”) attempted to sell used digital material (e.g., iTunes purchases that the purchaser no longer wanted to hear or see). A judge in the Southern District of New York ruled (last week) that this particular store, ReDigi, was a “clearinghouse for copyright infringement.”

I recently wrote about digital property, mostly with Steam’s store and service in mind. The upshot was that I worry about how much money I can invest into things I don’t “own” (in the sense that we are used to). Let me explain this further: most of the time, when we buy digital property, we actually buy a license to use the property, not the property itself. This is why it is coherent to courts to treat a physical object so differently from a digital one- the legal relationship the “owner” has with each is in a completely different category. This is what raises concerns for me- that my legal relationship with my digital property is different from my ownership over my physical property. Much of my concern is related to my assertion that more and more of our “property” will be digital in the future. As our property interests migrate to a digital world, it is deeply troubling to think that we would have a weaker grasp on our interests in the future.

Of course, the marketplace itself (independent of legal conceptions of ownership or license-ship) determines a great deal of this. After all, it is up to the record companies, development studios and distribution services to choose how to write their Terms of Use agreements. If these decision-makers become convinced that it is in their better economic interest to give a type of ownership that allows resale (and other aspects of physical property ownership) rather than the weaker licensing that many currently sell, the law need not budge on the issue of digital copyright. At least in theory, the law only identifies the correct situation, sorts it into the appropriate category, and applies the prescribed consequences. (The extent to which that is true is a subject of enormous debate, as you can imagine.) If the marketplace writes its contracts of sale in a way amicable to notions of property ownership for a world of digital property, the law need only enforce the appropriate contracts.

There is another sort of law, besides the law of the courthouse and the law of the marketplace, that bears on this subject. That is the law of the programing language itself. Part of the reason ReDigi  was decided to be infringement was that the transfer of the digital property was really a movement of a copy, not of the file itself. More abstractly, the issue the court takes with digital ownership is that digital objects do not behave like physical objects, especially for the reasons we suppose we have based our laws of ownership upon. Yet digital objects only behave in accordance with the programing language that describes them and the actions we may perform upon them. We have control over the digital landscape in which these objects exist, and we can decide (at least to a very large degree) how they behave and how we can (and cannot) interact with them.

In summary, I posit that changes in the marketplace and in programing standard practices can help consumers have more satisfying legal relationships with their digital property. The fact that these changes are available makes it all the less likely that the law will step in and protect consumers in this area (until or unless the abuse becomes excessively wanton).

Note 1: The structure of this approach, with a law of courthouse, marketplace, and programing code, is adopted from Lawrence Lessig’s “Code and Other Laws of Cyberspace” and “Code 2.0”

Note 2: The ReDigi ruling came out last week, but I was swamped with some time-consuming law school assignments and so couldn’t write this analysis sooner.

Rich OR Famous?

A great metric of the appropriateness of a reformation of copyright for the 21st century is the extent to which fame can be separated from fortune. Throughout the 20th century, “fame and fortune” rolled off the tongues of English speakers as a sort of single concept as a duo of nouns. Yet YouTube allows enormous masses the opportunity to be viewed by hundreds of millions of people without earning a cent. The emergence of “meme pics” has resulted in the almost spontaneous celebrity of people, turning candid photos by friends into mascot-images of sentiments and situations. Warhol is famous for noting that we would all have 15 minutes of fame in the future. What he did not mention is that we might not have 15 minutes of wealth along with it.

The splitting of fame and fortune seems right to me, in the example of Jonas Salk. Society is better off when thinkers and inventors give their work freely to the public to use, improve, develop, and enjoy. I would be interested to see a world in which these two approaches are taken to the extremes because I would be interested to see who would win: the artist who carefully protects and charges for the enjoyment of his work, or the artist who freely circulates his work. My initial reaction is that the artists who charge are those who think their work merits profit (that is, the good stuff will cost the most). Yet I wonder: if artists create out of their passion for their craft, might we see at least as good art from those seeking some goal other than wealth? Greed motivates, certainly, but I do not think it is necessarily the greatest motivation nor am I convinced it is any assurance of superlative quality. There is a book on the subject of how ideas are transmitted in a digital age entitled If It Doesn’t Spread, It’s Dead. If the title is correct correct, fame and fortune are not only separable, but may be pitted against one another in cyberspace. To pursue fame is encourage the spread of the idea. To pursue fortune is to erect a barrier to the spreading of the idea.

I would like artists of all walks to face this “would you rather” question: Would you rather… have everyone listen to your music/watch your movie/ read your book but make only a modest paycheck, OR have your work enjoyed only by a few but make more money?

As Metric put it: “… Who would you rather be: The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?”