"Machines take me by surprise with great frequency." Alan Turing
Computers were still huge assemblies of vacuum tubes and transistors when the German-Jewish émigré and computer scientist Joseph Weizenbaum published a paper called "ELIZAA Computer Program for the Study of Natural Language Communication between Man and Machine," in Communications of the Association for Computing Machinery 9. It was 1966, and Weizenbaum programmed ELIZA to simulate the "active listening" psychoanalytical strategies of the Rogerian therapy in vogue at the time. It began:
>>Hello. How do you do.
Please state your problem.
Any typed response elicited a question in return from ELIZA, with key words and phrases substituted and organized in such a way as to sound meaningful and further probing. ELIZA's mere 200 lines of code, running on the room-size IBM 7094, were effective enough to quickly draw the deepest secrets from many users, including several psychiatric practitioners, who asked if ELIZA could be adapted as a clinical tool; Weizenbaum's own secretary, who had seen him build the program, knew her interlocutor was not real, and yet still found herself so engaged in personal conversation with the machine that she asked to be alone with it for privacy.
So unfolded a watershed moment in the long history of people and their machines. ELIZA struck a deep chord: It was the first simulated intelligence, and already presented the possibility of people having an emotional relationship with a computer. That raised the issue, since taken up by computer scientists and philosophers and and eagerpost-humanists: What do such relationships mean? An early exploration appeared on The Twilight Zone, in the infamous "From AgnesWith Love" episode, in which Wally Cox plays a researcher whose computer eventually falls in love with him. Arthur C. Clarke deepened the troubled bond a few years later, when HAL 9000 elaborated ELIZA to its logical conclusion: true artificial intelligence, a self-aware machine that's willing to kill but also vulnerable enough to pray for an afterlife, as is HAL when it asks David with trepidation if it will dream when the power is switched off.
Today, the saga further unfolds with the Nintendogs phenomenon. That's a form of computer intelligence running on that experimental platform, the Nintendo DS, a hand-held game system far less advanced than the theoretical HAL 9000 but still powerful enough to let you walk around with a bunch of simulated beings living in your pocket. Yes: virtual pets. A game of tail-wagging, ball-chasing, romp-loving puppies is the latest evolution in the man-machine interface, now available for $29.99 at Wal-Mart and quality electronics retailers nationwide.
In its two months on the market, the game's been a huge commercial success, as people worldwide clamor to see their beagles and golden retrievers and Chihuahuas running around on the DS. (DS stands for double screen, and it opens like a clamshell.) Seven hundred thousand copies sold in Japan, where Nintendogs added yet another mode of expression for that country's overpowering . Stateside, Nintendogs was an equally instant success when it hit our shelves a half year later, outselling any title for the rivalPlayStation Portable, or PSP. Soon thereafter, Europe also fell to the Nintendogs invasion.
This despite that the ostensibly hipper and much more powerful PSP has been heavily marketed with the likes of Franz Ferdinand singing "Take Me Out" as vaguely hip, tastemaker-looking GAP ad extras run the lanes of the grocery story sitting in shopping carts while having oh-so-much-fun with their PSPs. But as any good post-humanist would say: Hardware's irrelevant; get with the program. Nintendogs trumps anything on the PSP because it's so much better conceived. (Famitsu magazine, the gold standard in Japan, had given only four perfect reviews prior to Nintendogs.)
The game starts at the kennel, where you can choose from six different breeds to take home. Once there, you can name your new critter, play with it, feed it, shampoo it, blow bubbles in its face, take it for walks, furiously wave its tail around, and enter it in Frisbee competitions to earn enough money to buy food, accessories, a new house and, of course, more dogs. All this happens with a direct and engaging interface: Rather than buttons, you use a stylus to pet your puppy right on the head, scratch its belly or shake its paw, and you talk into the DS microphone to teach it tricks. Each dog has its own personality and responds to how well it's treated. Just like your parents said when you begged and begged for that smelly hamster: "You brought it home, now you have take care of it." Nintendogs are needy. With good grooming and attention, they become well-adjusted, joyful creatures; abandon them and they turn into soiled wretches who eventually run away. But why would you want to do that, when your fuzzy-wuzzy-Muffin-face-McScrunches looks at you with eager eyes like 5 million chocolate cupcakes that say without words how much he loves you unconditionally and just wants to be played with and loved?
Therein lies Nintendogs inexorable pull: It's the first game powered by empathy. These things are much more convincing than the Tomogatchis, those rudimentary keychain creatures from the first virtual pet craze a decade ago. Nintendogs go a long way toward satisfying a sort of canine Turing test: If they look and act enough like dogs, then at a simple cognitive level, they're a pretty good substitute. It's rewarding when your digital dogs bring you a present, upsetting when they try to eat trash on walks, and they're so cute that when you find a big green floppy hat you want to make them wear it until you see in their little faces that they know the big green floppy hat is really a form of humiliation and you half-reluctantly take it off.
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