Content by Cory Doctorow (good non fiction books to read .txt) 📖

a binding agreement just by following a link, stepping into a store, buying a product, or receiving an email. By standing there, shaking your head, shouting “NO NO NO I DO NOT AGREE,” you agree to let me come over to your house, clean out your fridge, wear your underwear and make some long-distance calls.

If you buy a downloadable movie from Amazon Unbox, you agree to let them install spyware on your computer, delete any file they don’t like on your hard-drive, and cancel your viewing privileges for any reason. Of course, it goes without saying that Amazon reserves the right to modify the agreement at any time.

The worst offenders are people who sell you movies and music. They’re a close second to people who sell you software, or provide services over the Internet. There’s a rubric to this — you’re getting a discount in exchange for signing onto an abusive agreement, but just try and find the software that doesn’t come with one of these “agreements” — at any price.

For example, Vista, Microsoft’s new operating system, comes in a rainbow of flavors varying in price from $99 to $399, but all of them come with the same crummy terms of service, which state that “you may not work around any technical limitations in the software,” and that Windows Defender, the bundled anti-malware program, can delete any program from your hard drive that Microsoft doesn’t like, even if it breaks your computer.

It’s bad enough when this stuff comes to us through deliberate malice, but it seems that bogus agreements can spread almost without human intervention. Google any obnoxious term or phrase from a EULA, and you’ll find that the same phrase appears in a dozens — perhaps thousands — of EULAs around the Internet. Like snippets of DNA being passed from one virus to another as they infect the world’s corporations in a pandemic of idiocy, terms of service are semi-autonomous entities.

Indeed, when rocker Billy Bragg read the fine print on the MySpace user agreement, he discovered that it appeared that site owner Rupert Murdoch was laying claim to copyrights in every song uploaded to the site, in a silent, sinister land-grab that turned the media baron into the world’s most prolific and indiscriminate hoarder of garage-band tunes.

However, the EULA that got Bragg upset wasn’t a Murdoch innovation — it dates back to the earliest days of the service. It seems to have been posted at a time when the garage entrepreneurs who built MySpace were in no position to hire pricey counsel — something borne out by the fact that the old MySpace EULA appears nearly verbatim on many other services around the Internet. It’s not going out very far on a limb to speculate that MySpace’s founders merely copied a EULA they found somewhere else, without even reading it, and that when Murdoch’s due diligence attorneys were preparing to give these lucky fellows $600,000,000, that they couldn’t be bothered to read the terms of service anyway.

In their defense, EULAese is so mind-numbingly boring that it’s a kind of torture to read these things. You can hardly blame them.

But it does raise the question — why are we playing host to these infectious agents? If they’re not read by customers or companies, why bother with them?

If you wanted to really be careful about this stuff, you’d prohibit every employee at your office from clicking on any link, installing any program, creating accounts, signing for parcels — even doing a run to Best Buy for some CD blanks, have you seen the fine-print on their credit-card slips? After all, these people are entering into “agreements” on behalf of their employer — agreements to allow spyware onto your network, to not “work around any technical limitations in their software,” to let malicious software delete arbitrary files from their systems.

So far, very few of us have been really bitten in the ass by EULAs, but that’s because EULAs are generally associated with companies who have products or services they’re hoping you’ll use, and enforcing their EULAs could cost them business.

But that was the theory with patents, too. So long as everyone with a huge portfolio of unexamined, overlapping, generous patents was competing with similarly situated manufacturers, there was a mutually assured destruction — a kind of detente represented by cross-licensing deals for patent portfolios.

But the rise of the patent troll changed all that. Patent trolls don’t make products. They make lawsuits. They buy up the ridiculous patents of failed companies and sue the everloving hell out of everyone they can find, building up a war-chest from easy victories against little guys that can be used to fund more serious campaigns against larger organizations. Since there are no products to disrupt with a countersuit, there’s no mutually assured destruction.

If a shakedown artist can buy up some bogus patents and use them to put the screws to you, then it’s only a matter of time until the same grifters latch onto the innumerable “agreements” that your company has formed with a desperate dot-bomb looking for an exit strategy.

More importantly, these “agreements” make a mockery of the law and of the very idea of forming agreements. Civilization starts with the idea of a real agreement — for example, “We crap here and we sleep there, OK?” — and if we reduce the noble agreement to a schoolyard game of no-takebacks, we erode the bedrock of civilization itself.

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World of Democracycraft

(Originally published as “Why Online Games Are Dictatorships,” InformationWeek, April 16, 2007)

Can you be a citizen of a virtual world? That’s the question that I keep asking myself, whenever anyone tells me about the wonder of multiplayer online games, especially Second Life, the virtual world that is more creative playground than game.

These worlds invite us to take up residence in them, to invest time (and sometimes money) in them. Second Life encourages you to make stuff using their scripting engine and sell it in the game. You Own Your Own Mods — it’s the rallying cry of the new generation of virtual worlds, an updated version of the old BBS adage from the WELL: You Own Your Own Words.

I spend a lot of time in Disney parks. I even own a share of Disney stock. But I don’t flatter myself that I’m a citizen of Disney World. I know that when I go to Orlando, the Mouse is going to fingerprint me and search my bags, because the Fourth Amendment isn’t a “Disney value.”

Disney even has its own virtual currency, symbolic tokens called Disney Dollars that you can spend or exchange at any Disney park. I’m reasonably confident that if Disney refused to turn my Mickeybucks back into US Treasury Department-issue greenbacks that I could make life unpleasant for them in a court of law.

But is the same true of a game? The money in your real-world bank-account and in your in-game bank-account is really just a pointer in a database. But if the bank moves the pointer around arbitrarily (depositing a billion dollars in your account, or wiping you out), they face a regulator. If a game wants to wipe you out, well, you probably agreed to let them do that when you signed up.

Can you amass wealth in such a world? Well, sure. There are rich people in dictatorships all over the world. Stalin’s favorites had great big dachas and drove fancy cars. You don’t need democratic rights to get rich.

But you do need democratic freedoms to stay rich. In-world wealth is like a Stalin-era dacha, or the diamond fortunes of Apartheid South Africa: valuable, even portable (to a limited extent), but not really yours, not in any stable, long-term sense.

Here are some examples of the difference between being a citizen and a customer:

In January, 2006 a World of Warcraft moderator shut down an advertisement for a “GBLT-friendly” guild. This was a virtual club that players could join, whose mission was to be “friendly” to “Gay/Bi/Lesbian/Transgendered” players. The WoW moderator — and Blizzard management — cited a bizarre reason for the shut-down:

“While we appreciate and understand your point of view, we do feel that the advertisement of a ‘GLBT friendly’ guild is very likely to result in harassment for players that may not have existed otherwise. If you will look at our policy, you will notice the suggested penalty for violating the Sexual Orientation Harassment Policy is to ‘be temporarily suspended from the game.’ However, as there was clearly no malicious intent on your part, this penalty was reduced to a warning.”

Sara Andrews, the guild’s creator, made a stink and embarrassed Blizzard (the game’s parent company) into reversing the decision.

In 2004, a player in the MMO EVE Online declared that the game’s creators had stacked the deck against him, called EVE, “a poorly designed game which rewards the greedy and violent, and punishes the hardworking and honest.” He was upset over a change in the game dynamics which made it easier to play a pirate and harder to play a merchant.

The player, “Dentara Rask,” wrote those words in the preamble to a tell-all memoir detailing an elaborate Ponzi scheme that he and an accomplice had perpetrated in EVE. The two of them had bilked EVE’s merchants out of a substantial fraction of the game’s total GDP and then resigned their accounts. The objective was to punish the game’s owners for their gameplay decisions by crashing the game’s economy.

In both of these instances, players — residents of virtual worlds — resolved their conflicts with game management through customer activism. That works in the real world, too, but when it fails, we have the rule of law. We can sue. We can elect new leaders. When all else fails, we can withdraw all our money from the bank, sell our houses, and move to a different country.

But in virtual worlds, these recourses are off-limits. Virtual worlds can and do freeze players’ wealth for “cheating” (amassing gold by exploiting loopholes in the system), for participating in real-world gold-for-cash exchanges (eBay recently put an end to this practice on its service), or for violating some other rule. The rules of virtual worlds are embodied in EULAs, not Constitutions, and are always “subject to change without notice.”

So what does it mean to be “rich” in Second Life? Sure, you can have a thriving virtual penis business in game, one that returns a healthy sum of cash every month. You can even protect your profits by regularly converting them to real money. But if you lose an argument with Second Life’s parent company, your business vanishes. In other worlds, the only stable in-game wealth is the wealth you take out of the game. Your virtual capital investments are totally contingent. Piss off the wrong exec at Linden Labs, Blizzard, Sony Online Entertainment, or Sularke and your little in-world business could disappear for good.

Well, what of it? Why not just create a “democratic” game that has a constitution, full citizenship for players, and all the prerequisites for stable wealth? Such a game would be open source (so that other, interoperable “nations” could be established for you to emigrate to if you don’t like the will of the majority in one game-world), and run by elected representatives who would instruct the administrators and programmers as to how to run the virtual world. In the real world, the TSA sets the rules for aviation — in a virtual world, the equivalent agency would determine the physics of flight.

The question is, would this game be any fun? Well, democracy itself is pretty fun — where “fun” means “engrossing and engaging.” Lots of people like to play the democracy game, whether by voting every four years or by moving to K Street and setting up a lobbying operation.

But video games