Futures: Guest Editorial by Stephen Oram

As I sit and write this in December 2022, I am surrounded by the excruciating noise of buildings being torn down, knowing that they will be replaced by something similar. The continuous drilling of machines make sounds like the earth is screaming as they cut deeper and deeper into it. The roads are being dug up again to replace or repair cables for our ‘modern’ technology. It’s not so much the abrasiveness of the noise that I find shocking, it’s the sheer waste of precious resources combined with the stark reminder of how we accept and even relish the bashing of nature into submission. Is this really the best we can do? Are we really advancing? Talking of which, the sun is shining bright, possibly a little too much for the time of year, and yet we appear to be unable to stop ourselves from destroying this planet which allows us our precious life. If only we could heed the warnings from fiction, as suggested by various articles in this issue. One step forward, two steps back. Then I reflect some more. I’ve just had a consultation with my doctor without leaving home and I’m preparing for a Cybersalon Christmas event that will be held simultaneously in a physical venue, an online platform and in Virtual Reality. Thankfully though, there are no hoverboards, drones or cars flying past the window of my top floor flat. I revise my pessimism. Two steps forward, one back. Which brings me on to the subject of this issue.

Speculative fiction is one of the sources the media, the general public, scientists and technologists use to frame the future. When asked about guest editing, I was in the midst of wondering whether, as a writer of near-future science fiction, I have a moral duty to reflect potential futures as accurately as possible, rather than simply selling the sensational. I was also beginning a project with King’s College London, writing short stories that raised ethical issues around using AI to automate the prediction of youth mental health problems. Issues such as whether it’s sensible to predict potential problems, whether we should use automated tools to minimise the costs and help clinicians, and whether losing the privacy of data is a price worth paying. At the same time as exploring the questions, I was busy asking myself if speculative fiction affects the future at all. Reading the articles in this issue has made me think that it most certainly does, and I’m not the only one who has been considering this. In 2020 Cory Doctorow published an article, ‘I’m Changing How I Write Fiction—for the Benefit of the Real World.‘ If fiction affects what people do through ‘intuition pumps’, he argues, then it could be a form of activism. For example:

New stories will help us understand the importance of seizing the means of computation and using it to build movements that break up monopolies, fight oligarchy, and demand pluralistic, shared power for a pluralistic, shared world.

Changing our intuition pumps is not easy, but it’s urgent—and overdue.

As I began to read around about the topic, I came across three terms that are often used interchangeably—prediction, forecast and foresight. If you’re not familiar with them, as you read through articles you’ll see how they differ and why we need clarity of definitions. Will Slocombe’s article also points out that speculative fiction has been used to explore how these might work, or not, in different contexts.

In Torque Control, Jo and Polina have taken me further with their four different approaches to applied science fiction. As they suggest, it’s possible that, ‘science fiction does make important differences to the world but that there is simply not yet a comprehensive or consistent theory to articulate how and why.’ So, I ask you to keep an open mind about the role of science fiction as you read on.

A 2013 working paper from the innovation foundation Nesta, ‘Better Made Up: The Mutual Influence of Science Fiction and Innovation,‘ sets out different ways in which speculative fiction might predict or influence the future. Its authors Caroline Bassett, Ed Steinmueller, and Georgina Voss argue, in a nutshell, that speculative fiction can: imagine technology that is then directly translated into reality (emphasising that this is very rare); influence how technology is framed, for example in discussion, regulation and development; inspire innovation industries and certain groups, such as hackers, the military or resistance movements; and influence how science and technology are understood, debated and judged in public.

A quote that is often used to describe the role of sci-fi in extrapolating current trends and their impact on society is from Frederick Pohl: ‘A good science fiction story should be able to predict not the automobile but the traffic jam.’ I would take this further and say that science fiction should enable discussions on whether the car is worth the traffic jam. It should provide us with ideas that can help us reflect on the political and ethical dimensions of the future. After all, science fiction doesn’t always warn us about the right things. For example, it has a tendency to focus on the existential risk of robots taking over and killing us all, when the mundane aspects of artificial intelligence are more likely to have serious consequences for society. Predictions don’t necessarily need to be accurate to encourage useful debate.

I’ve seen this play out through Cybersalon’s 22 Ideas About the Future project, with the subject experts developing their understanding of how science fiction can be used in foresight. As David Birch, thought leader in digital identity and digital money, says, ‘What these stories had in common was that they were not so much about how the money of the future would work, but what it would do to us and our relationships. I like being challenged to think about this because, as is often said, we tend to overestimate the short-term impact of new technology (cf. self-driving cars) but completely underestimate the long-term impact of new technology (cf. MySpace).’

With this in mind, it’s worth considering the long-term questions around how society might evolve. While preparing for a foresighting workshop I settled on four aspects: Firstly, the extent to which we continue to delegate decisions and outsource our agency to technology, mainly because we believe it to be more rational and hence more accurate than us; secondly, whether as a species we take the route of community and collaboration or whether we continue with a competitive ‘survival of the fittest’ worldview; thirdly, how far we continue into the insularity and individualism of neoliberalism and nationalism in contrast to becoming a more open and connected set of societies; and finally, our ability and willingness to shift our thinking, and in particular our planning and actions, from the immediate of the next few years to the longer term view of many decades.

That’s all very well, but how do we discuss these possible futures and how does fiction help us achieve them?

We know that stories are important in helping us imagine. We are a storytelling species. To quote Dr Danbee Kim, the neuroscientist for the wonderful graphic essay in this issue, ‘stories profoundly improve our abilities to remember and pass on complex information, gain perspective on difficult situations, and expand our capacity for empathy.’ And, in 22 Ideas About the Future media theorist Douglas Rushkoff explains that he sees speculative fiction creating ‘space for the novel‘ and ‘revealing truths we have hidden from ourselves.‘

Being inclusive about who takes part, and how, is crucial. Whenever we discuss our future(s) it is vital that we acknowledge who is fortunate enough to have access to conversations or the time to think about it, whether through set-piece projects or by reading and watching speculative fiction. Then, we must ensure those who are excluded become included. If this is not a familiar activity for someone, it can be worth pointing to the fact that, as Sara Stoudt alludes to in her article, many of our day-to-day encounters with statistics have a speculative narrative attached, the different possible impacts of climate change for example. However, we can expect resistance to democratising the future from those with power because, as Andrew Merrie notes in his interview, ‘Saying “that’s implausible” is often a way of cutting people out of the conversation or a power play to preserve or reify the status quo.’

If storytelling is this powerful, shouldn’t it focus more on positive futures, such as AI and humans working together to solve the big problems rather than competing for jobs, or even control of the planet? Solarpunk is a prime example of a subgenre that focuses on positive futures, and if you’re not familiar with it then it’s worth using the QR code in the graphic essay to find out more. However, as we see from the traffic jam argument, storytelling can also play a significant role in imagining the futures we want to avoid. As Douglas Rushkoff observes, ‘My facts and insights don’t penetrate closed minds […] If they would only consider the utterly implausible, even if just for kicks, I know I could take care of the rest.’ But beware. Whether a story is optimistic, realistic or pessimistic, as writer-researcher Yen Ooi notes, ‘It is exciting and romantic to dream about these technologically inspired futurescapes, but what these science fictional worlds often ignore—usually in an effort to create more exciting entertainment—is the fact that technology isn’t and will never be the main star in our reality.’ In a similar vein, Lauren Prater challenges us in her piece for UNHCR’s Project Unsung: ‘Could we embrace nature’s logic of emergence and shift from scaling to seeding change? Would something novel still be innovative if it was built slowly, over many generations and was decorated with our values rather than the capitalist logic of simply moving fast and breaking things? Would you give up efficiency and ease for mutual flourishing? No, really, would you?’

Storytelling in all its forms is important and what these articles and the projects I’m involved in tell me is that at every stage of the life-cycle of a story, from its worldbuilding and narrative, through to it being ‘received’, interpreted and retold, there is the potential for two-way flows of influence between scientists, technologists, writers and readers.

Recently, I was invited to take part in the project described in the article by Allen Stroud with the Defence Science and Technology Lab (DSTL), an executive agency funded by the UK Ministry of Defence (MoD). Deciding whether to get involved helped crystallise the moral issue I was busy thinking about into a real-life decision. One point of view is that it’s better to be in the room than not, another is that mere contact will taint. Having been approached by DSTL after a talk I gave at the Royal Anthropological Institute, I asked around to see if they were to be trusted and was fortunate enough to spend time chatting with their principal anthropologist. This led me to Allen’s project. My natural political inclination is anarchism, towards bottom-up community led action, delegating upwards the things that cannot be dealt with locally, all the way up to the global level. It was from this standpoint that I was making my decision. If my conclusion is that the life-cycle of a piece of speculative fiction does influence the future, then I had to decide if I would be contributing to the UK trying to be ‘top dog’ in a conflict or whether I’d be helping avoid conflict. I believe I made the right decision to get involved, but am keeping a close eye on how the project develops.

Coming back to the practicalities of using speculative fiction overtly to imagine possible futures. It’s important to think carefully about method and structure, and there are articles here that give good insights into how collaborative projects between subject experts and speculative fiction writers can work.

One of the standout problems I’ve already touched on is who gets to influence and be influenced. Therefore, in projects using speculative fiction the paramount issue has to be about creating a ‘level playing field’ for all, including any of the general public who are participating, making it clear that everyone has their own expertise to bring to the table. This can be achieved by equal payments, but often the project is part of a subject expert’s day job for which they are already paid, meaning it is better achieved by structuring the introductions and activities in a way that makes the equality explicit. It’s worth noting here that my experience is UK centric and there may be different difficulties with representation elsewhere that have different solutions.

An important factor in my deliberations has been understanding what’s in it for the authors, because if they’re not on board then we’re sunk before we start. Dr. Christine Aicardi, a Senior Research Fellow at King’s College London, interviewed the sci-fi writers in 22 Ideas about the Future: ‘I write from the perspective of a social scientist concerned with the social and ethical imports of future and emerging technologies […] I propose that through their speculative fictions, the authors are engaging with us to develop an ethics of the future—a fundamentally relational, speculative ethics of the future, which, to borrow from a foundational paper theorising responsible innovation, would aim at “taking care of the future through collective stewardship of science and innovation in the present.”’

It’s also worth noting that Christine and I have been involved in numerous projects over the past 7 years, often with returning experts, so there must be some perceived value in what we’re doing.

And there I am, back at the core question. However, after a wonderful journey of discovery, I have answers to my original questions.

Yes, speculative fiction does influence scientists and technologists in what and how they research, discover and invent. Yes, its predictions do affect the future if you take ‘predictions’ and ‘affect’ in their broadest sense. To an extent, it has a responsibility to be accurate and not sensational, but shouldn’t lose the ‘attractiveness’ of the story because then it’ll be ignored. It doesn’t have to be tech-utopian. For example, I want to warn and inspire, but not demoralise. At the very least, it should generate some action even if that’s only in subtle shifts of understanding and behaviour. And, although the primary purpose of speculative fiction is entertainment, don’t forget that pondering possible futures can also be entertaining.

Finally, to consider our futures through speculative fiction effectively we should avoid using individual stories as a prediction, but rather get a sense from a wide range of stories about the possibilities of where we might be heading, and what we might do about it.

I want to end with supercharged activism, the fourth approach to applied science fiction described by Jo and Polina in Torque Control. Having often been on the ‘fringe of the fringes’ with one foot on the ‘outside’ and one on the ‘inside’ of the mainstream, this is an incredibly attractive notion. After all, the future is ours and it’s up for grabs. So, let’s give it a nudge in the right direction.

Bio:

Stephen Oram writes near-future science fiction. His short story collections have been praised by publications as diverse as The Morning Star and The Financial Times. He is published in many anthologies and has two published novels. He also works with scientists and technologists to explore possible futures through short stories, and has co-edited three anthologies along these lines. He is a writer for sci-fi prototypers SciFutures and a founding curator for near-future fiction at Virtual Futures.

Extracting Humanity and Other Stories will be published in July 2023 by Orchid’s Lantern Press. His latest novel—Machine Nations—is currently looking for a home.

This article first appeared in Vector: Futures, a publication in part supported by the PASTRES programme (Pastoralism, Uncertainty, Resilience: Global Lessons from the Margins, http://www.pastres.org), funded by the European Research Council (ERC) (Grant No. 70432). PASTRES is co-hosted by the Institute of Development Studies (IDS) and the European University Institute (EUI).

Finding Utopia in the Failures and Lost Languages of Dialect

By Ben Platt

It seems that the utopian imagination is trapped, like capitalism and industrialism and the human population, in a one-way future consisting only of growth. All I’m trying to do is figure out how to put a pig on the tracks.
Ursula K. Le Guin, “A Non-Euclidean View of California as a Cold Place to Be”

What happens when we combine TTRPGs, an artistic medium that often depends on the productive forces of failure, with utopianism, a ‘philosophy of hope’^[1]that expresses the ‘desire for a better way of being’^[2] but which has been undermined by its ties to the social and political failures of the 20th century?

TTRPGs often build their mechanical foundations on the bedrock tension between success and failure through action-resolution systems that some game studies scholars identify as one of ‘three key design areas […] relevant for all types of RPGs.’^[3] Failure, for many players, makes the eventual successes that emerge through these improvisational stories all the sweeter. As Sarah Lynne Bowman remarks, ‘even players who enjoy various types of games for entertainment… locate their pleasure as rooted in the mental challenges necessary for success and the competitive gratification inherent to outwitting an opponent.’^[4]

Utopianism, on the other hand, seems to have been undermined in the popular imagination due to its association with failure. In our current socio-political climate, ‘to call a political ideology or project “utopian” in this context was not only to signal that it was unrealistic or unrealizable,’ but also that utopianism as a whole is ‘irresponsibly and actively dangerous, an effort to exert political control over whole societies, freeze history, deny social complexity, and treat human beings as so much raw material for the fulfillment of grand philosophical visions.’^[5] These visions were more often than not ‘the emanation of a single, individual will, a fantasy of total control.’^[6] Remnants of a utopian desire persist, but have to contend with the bleak socio-political landscapes where they are often drowned out by the ‘empty din of globalized neoliberal capitalism’ and the general consensus within ‘mature capitalist liberal democracies’ that the ‘prospect of gradual progress under consensual, relatively depoliticized, liberal or social-democratic governance’ is the best path forward.^[7] Because of its perceived failures, utopianism as a method of representing and bringing about concrete ‘replacement ideologies’^[8] and ‘full-fledged alternative communities ready to supplant existing institutions’^[9] has lost much of its foothold in the contemporary imagination, despite the urgent feeling that we need a better world now more than ever.

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Vector ‘Futures’: Torque Control

Apply Science Fiction Here

Jo Lindsay Walton and Polina Levontin

Every issue of Vector is special, but this one is especially special. It is guest-edited by science fiction author Stephen Oram, and it was made possible through a collaboration between the British Science Fiction Association (BSFA), the UK’s oldest and largest association for writers, publishers and fans of science fiction¹, and the Institute for Development Studies (IDS), an independent think tank affiliated with the University of Sussex.

The theme is ‘futures.’ Plural, obviously: science fiction would never be content with just one future. ‘Futures’ is also shorthand for ‘futures studies‘: horizon-scanning, strategic foresight, scenario planning, anticipatory governance, forecasting and backcasting, red teaming and wargaming, speculative design and diegetic prototyping, experiential futures, futures futures, superforecasting and plenty more besides.

When businesses, governments, financial institutions and other actors seek to peer into the future, they often use some variety of risk management. Risk management overlaps with futures studies, but it is really pretty distinct. As crystal balls go, it’s a prosaic one. It involves identifying risks, assessing (perhaps quantifying) them, monitoring them, and implementing treatment strategies (such as avoiding, reducing, sharing, transferring, or informed acceptance). There is even an International Standard for Risk Management (ISO 31000). By contrast, future studies is a field where the expert and the charlatan can be difficult to distinguish. Many futures practitioners may be unsure themselves which of these they are, or in what proportion they are both.

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‘Putting Racism Aside’: Dungeons & Dragons, Ancestry & Culture, and Race Discourse in the Homebrew Community

By Jess Wind

In spring 2020, amid the global COVID-19 pandemic and the reignited Black Lives Matter movement, institutions were being called on to respond to deeply ingrained structural racism. Media organizations drafted commitments towards building more equitable and inclusive spaces for both creators and audiences. Dungeons and Dragons (D&D)publisher Wizards of the Coast (WotC) issued their version of a commitment to anti-racism on June 17, 2020. The announcement, ‘Diversity in Dungeons and Dragons’^[1] led to varied responses online, from praise and excitement for the coming changes^[2], to warnings that WotC risks harming its product and alienating ‘true players’ to appease the current social conflict^[3]. The responses illustrate a familiar tension within ‘geek culture’ and gaming communities, marred by racist gatekeeping, and yearning for an imagined past^[4] where social and cultural diversity are conversations for ‘the real world’ and the fantasy worlds of games and play are for escape.^[5]

Some players appealed to their agency to adapt and extend official rules (‘homebrew’) to create the fantasy worlds they want to play in, partly, as some have suggested, to distance themselves from the conversation regarding diversity in D&D^[6]. Yet as well as the risk of foreclosing diversity, homebrew content can allow players to develop characters and worlds in ways not offered by D&D’s standard rules^[7], an opportunity which for marginalized individuals allows for a kind of visibility and player agency still rarely seen in mainstream media, and going substantially further than the changes made by WotC so far. While some responses to WotC’s commitment to diversity suggest a player’s relationship to homebrew content insulates them from shifts towards more inclusive content, I argue the practice of developing homebrew content positions players as active participants in D&D’s political and cultural economy, and that they are therefore affected by similar tensions around diversity and inclusion that WotC has committed to addressing.

Roleplaying game scholarship has focused on the history of racism in D&D‘s commercial content and other RPG products^[8] or on the experiences of players during gameplay^[9]. In her examination of gamers with marginalized identities, Adrienne Shaw argues ‘representation is part of a process of meaning making, but textual analyses tend to focus on the finished product’^[10] and proposes that more attention should be paid to representation within play practices. Tanner Higgin urges that research about racism in representation must turn its focus toward the industry that produces content rather than only documenting and evaluating practices of racial representation.^[11] Antero Garcia similarly argues that games ‘cannot be studied as if [they] are isolated from the cultures that influence them or in which they are embedded.’^[12] Yet there is a paucity of research that addresses the community of homebrew creators despite their crucial role in the development of D&D content and culture.

I situate this research between well-developed feminist game studies scholarship which critiques the long-standing tradition of white cishetero patriarchy^[13], and critical fan studies scholarship engaged with unpacking racism and marginalization in fan spaces and cultural production,^[14]^, to examine the vast community of D&D players that tell stories based on rules in a book, extending those rules to create sprawling social cultural fantasy worlds.

I begin by framing the discussion within broader contexts of racism in the fantasy genre, and within D&D specifically, through the case study example of Arcanist Press’ Ancestry & Culture: An Alternative to Race in 5e (A&C). While A&C is by no means the only homebrew publication that responds to social issues in D&D in this way, it has been chosen as a relatively recent and popular example — at the time of writing, it is listed fifth among the most popular titles on DriveThruRPG with the ‘Dungeons and Dragons’ tag.

Homebrew is distinctly part of tabletop roleplaying games, and has long been an encouraged practice in D&D. Where video game modding and writing fanfiction have at times been clouded by conversations about authorial control and copyright infringement^[15], homebrewing elements of your D&D game is part of creating new and different worlds to play and tell stories in. The Player’s Handbook and Dungeon Master’s Guide, official rulebooks published by WotC,both include caveats that the rules are guidelinesmeant to give your game a sense of structure and balance. With the release of the third edition, WotC went further, encouraging third-party publishers to create content based on D&D‘s ruleset using their Open Gaming License (OGL)^[16]. This is distinctly different from players deciding among their friends at the table to adopt certain ‘house rules’ or abandon published rules that don’t fit with their home game. The System Reference Document offers D&D players foundations that they can develop into their own commercial D&D products. WotC makes space for the active homebrew community through their partnership with OneBookShelf on the homebrew marketplace Dungeon Masters Guild, and the Guild Adept program. Homebrew is not only encouraged as a legitimate way to engage with D&D products, but includes a significant proportion of the D&D player community. Therefore, while WotC’s diversity statement addresses the changes they’re making to their commercially available products, this only goes part of the way in addressing discourses of harm and marginalization in the D&D player community. By examining homebrew content as a legitimate extension of D&D’s transmediated franchise, and by positioning creators within the wider D&D labour economy, we are better able to examine discourses surrounding inclusion and diversity in the D&D player community.

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Dancing Computers and Loom Libraries: Extrapolating Complex Information Delivery Systems from Historical Practices

By Eric Horwitz

Semiosis is second nature to us. The methods by which we transcribe and store information, the processes of creating and reading texts, are so baked into our everyday lives that we barely recognize them as inventions. People who we believe to be ‘ancient’ — civilizations who nevertheless succeeded many thousands of years of prehistory — believed writing to have been a miracle bestowed by heaven (Senner, 10-16). For our part, most of us seldom think about where writing comes from. If we do reflect on it, we might assume that writing is simply the best way (or the only way) to perform all of writing’s functions: our preoccupations are with the many hundreds of millions of bytes processed by a computer instead of the rote conventions of literacy. But that in the English-speaking world there should be some twenty-six visible orthographic marks and a handful of other numbers and symbols, that these should indicate English phonetics and be placed together to make words, that these words should be grouped into sentences with punctuation for clarification, that there should be this number of sentences on a page and that number of pages in a book, that a book should deliver information and move the heart within expectations of convention and genre, that there should be a library to organize these books, and that other languages though they use abjads, abugidas, or syllabaries, should be similar enough for translation — these are not inevitable developments.

By looking at the early history of writing I hope to isolate key moments of its adoption and development into the primary medium of the literate world today. At the same time I hope to explore other methods of data collection and meaning transference, other systems of semiosis, and speculate on their potential to act as modes of literary communication as complex as the written word. In doing so I risk a Whiggish and deterministic approach to history, I flirt with clumsy teleology and notions of progress. I hope that these extrapolations are understood as not one-to-one equivalences on an imagined great path of history, as they would be in an inelegant alternate history. I don’t intend here to elevate writing above speech, song and dance; nor to imply that my inspirations are in any way lacking their own semiotic richness and complexity. Rather, I intend this article as a playful investigation into possibilities, and as a reminder of how speculative fiction often presents as ‘universal’ what are really just the technologies and practices of a handful of recent powerful empires.

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Records mark the past, present, and future in Avatar: The Last Airbender

By Samantha Solomon

Though Avatar: The Last Airbender’s (Nickelodeon, 2005-2008) final episode aired 14 years ago, the television show left an unforgettable mark on its young audience. When the show started streaming on Netflix in 2020, waves of viewers returned to watch, including myself. Perhaps people found comfort in the show during the pandemic, and many new eyes were opened to the incredible art, moving storylines, and powerful social criticism about war, industrialism, and oppression.

For those who have not watched the show, some people in the world of Avatar are born with “bending” power, or the ability to manipulate one of the four elements (water, earth, fire, and air). Avatar follows the journey of Aang, the most recent reincarnation of the Avatar, the only person who can control all four elements. As the Avatar, Aang is connected to all his past selves and is the bridge between the mortal world and spirit world. In search of a way to defeat the tyrannical Fire Nation and restore balance to the world, Aang travels with water bender Katara and her brother Sokka. They are later joined by Toph, a blind earth bender who can sense motion and objects through the soles of her feet, and much later by Zuko, a reformed Fire Nation prince.

“Water. Earth. Fire. Air. Long ago, the four nations lived together in harmony. Then everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked.”

Every episode is introduced this way, reminding the audience that despite endearing storylines about love and friendship, the show exists always in the context of war, genocide, and diaspora. That context allowed Avatar: The Last Airbender to explore deeply complicated themes using a speculative world inspired by many cultures, including Japanese, Chinese, Tibetan, and Inuit.

While there are several ways to analyze how that complicated world is rendered across each episode, I will focus on records, record-keeping, and documentation or “information-as-thing.” Information-as-thing applies to all kinds of tangible objects that embody knowledge. Documents are not the only records that contain essential information because “objects that are not documents in the normal sense of being texts can nevertheless be information resources, information-as-thing” (Buckland, 1991). A record can be a book. It can arguably be a fish (Ginsburg, Ruth B., Yates v. United States). Information-as-thing is usually manifested in something material, and people can read, see, interpret, misunderstand, understand, control, and destroy it.

(left to right) Katara, Sokka, and Aang take in the stars at the planetarium.

Finding other forms of resources outside of paper is also important in Avatar. Posters, maps, and scrolls often guide the main characters to an insight, refuge, or even triumph – but these documents are corruptible, easily changed or destroyed. The authoritarian regime of Earth Kingdom city Ba Sing Se disposes of posters and pamphlets that counter the government’s messaging in ‘City of Walls and Secrets’ (2.14). The totalitarian Fire Nation has re-written its history books to better suit its narrative of conquest in ‘The Headband’ (3.2). If these tactics sound familiar from our own world, it’s because they are meant to. And much like in our world, the fragility of paper documents, erasures of history, and domination of information exchange often require the past to be reconstructed through cultural objects, ancient architecture, and other artifacts. Even in a world of earth bending, where someone could use her power to shatter stone carvings and sacred temples, there are many intact structures and objects scattered across the four nations.

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Just Make-Believe: Assumed Neutrality, Archetypical Exceptionalism, and Performative Progressivism in Dungeons and Dragons

By Kelsey Paige Mason

In a shareholder ‘fireside chat’ with Hasbro CEO Chris Cocks (former president of Wizards of the Coast from 2016-2022), and Cynthia Williams, the current CEO and president of WotC, both parties outlined Wizards’ four-quadrant strategy for investment growth with D&D: offering blockbuster entertainment, AAA high-end gaming, products for tabletop gamers, and products for the more casual fan.[1] Williams begins her response about Dungeons and Dragons by saying, ‘D&D has never been more popular, and we have really great fans and incredible engagement, but the first thing I saw with it is the brand is really under monetized.’[2] From their new acquisition of D&D Beyond giving them market insights into personal games,[3] to creating an environment which encourages ‘recurrent spending,’ much like paid DLCs and pay-to-play models of digital games,[4] Wizards is working towards taking advantage of D&D’s 50-year legacy but also its position as ‘a cultural phenomenon right now.’[5] By ‘engaging and surrounding the consumer’[6] with game products, entertainment media, and personal accessories and collectables, Wizards is building a unified lifestyle brand, under the codename One D&D. Wizards has already seen the success of D&D becoming a ‘generic trademark,’ where Dungeons and Dragons has colloquially become the shorthand or stand-in for the genre of tabletop roleplaying games. With more brand recognition than their most profitable property, Magic: The Gathering,[7] Wizards is working to expand beyond manufacturing simply TTRPG ‘products,’ and instead capitalize on fandom in all its forms – from film and video games to actual play performances[8] and lifestyle accessories.

While the shareholder seminar focused on how to increase spending opportunities for consumers to increase profits, WotC’s outward facing PR has instead – since at least 2014 – marketed the D&D lifestyle as a community, one which sees Wizards’ products as secondary to fostering a community of players and game masters (GMs). In the opening pages of the 5^th Edition Player’s Handbook, Mike Mearls writes, ‘Above all else, D&D is yours.’[9] After the recent controversy with proposed replacement of the Open Gaming License (OGL), Kyle Brink echoed a more sheepish form of this sentiment, saying, regardless of whether the community trusts Wizards again or not, “either way, play your game with your friends. You don’t need to have [Wizards] at the table if you don’t want to. You know, your game is for you. We’ll make stuff for it, and if you want it, we’ll be over here making it. You can come get it. But, honestly, we should not be messing up your game. You should be playing your game.’[10] Statements put out by Wizards, Dungeons and Dragons, and D&D Beyond often invoke the community, while often simultaneously diminishing their own role in shaping that community. Wizards of the Coast (WotC) is actively and aggressively working towards, not just strengthening Dungeons and Dragons as a brand, but more importantly, pushing towards greater monetization of Dungeons and Dragons as a lifestyle. The first part of my work in this chapter is an analysis of published game materials, public statements, and recent events since Wizards of the Coast’s commitment to diversity in 2020.

Ultimately, this work aims to uncover what benefits are afforded to Wizards as a result of their push towards diversity and inclusion as part of rebranding and how this commitment allows greater control over reconciling D&D’s problematic history with monetization plans for the future. This reconciliation, tied with a unification and tightening of the ‘community’ of D&D fans, works more towards the security of D&D’s brand than as a platform for political progressivism. While there should not be any expectation for social change emerging out of a multi-million dollar corporation, the importance of my chapter’s intervention is to demonstrate how Wizards has used the language of social justice and progressivism to create an appearance of a utopian D&D community. My focus in analyzing WotC and D&D is not whether WotC’s revisions of game materials to move away from their racist, sexist, and ableist origins are beneficial to the brand. Rather, I investigate whether these utopian moves are demonstrably present in D&D products, in WotC as a workplace, and in the types of social relationships the game promotes.

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Rejigging the Algorithm

How Jennifer Walshe is Reinventing the Music of the Past and Reclaiming the Music of the Future

By Paul March-Russell

One of the highlights of the 2022 Proms season was the London premiere of The Site of an Investigation (2018) by the Irish avant-garde composer Jennifer Walshe. This thirty-three minute piece in twenty-six sections offered a synopsis of Walshe’s preoccupations. Walshe herself, sounding like a cross between Laurie Anderson and Diamanda Galas, took the role of soloist, offering an elegiac commentary upon such topics as the race to Mars, the threat to the oceans and the prospect of digital immortality. The orchestra, largely acting as the symphonic backdrop to Walshe’s fragmented monologue, were further inveigled into the proceedings by waving party streamers, building and demolishing a tower of bricks, and wrapping a four-foot high giraffe in crinkly paper. Both the absurdity and incoherence of the piece, culled from an array of internet sources, recalled ‘the blip culture bombardment’ of the mediascape in Don DeLillo’s White Noise (1985).^[1]

Jennifer Walshe/Arditti Quartet, *EVERYTHING IS IMPORTANT* (2019). Credit: IMD 2016/Daniel Pufe

Exactly a hundred years since the first composition of Kurt Schwitters’s sound poem Ursonate (1922-32), a text that Walshe cites as an inspiration,^[2] such anti-art performances can still drive audiences either to delight or despair. In Walshe’s case, however, The Site of an Investigation is only an adjunct to her two main projects in recent years. The first, Aisteach, archives an alternate history of an Irish musical avant-garde that never existed, presenting original sound recordings and learned academic discussion. The second, The Text Score Dataset 1.0, involves the compilation of over 3000 text scores with which to retrain machine learning algorithms so that new scores can be generated by AI. This article offers an introduction to these two projects from the perspective of Walshe’s acknowledged debts to science fiction. The final section presents a speculative synthesis since, at the time of writing, Walshe has not linked the two projects together. But what if Aisteach was included as part of the dataset? What kind of future music emerges from an invented set of past sounds? How might we reclaim the future as well as the past? Could we obviate that ‘slow cancellation of the future’ as described by Mark Fisher and others?^[3]

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We Will Never Escape Utopia: Gender, Queer, Pragmatic, and Hopeful Utopia in The Treasure at the End of the Dungeon is an Escape From This Dungeon and We Will Never Escape From This Dungeon

By Grace A.T. Worm

The Treasure

In the tabletop roleplaying game The Treasure at the End of the Dungeon is an Escape From This Dungeon and We Will Never Escape From This Dungeon (hereafter The Treasure), players enter the game’s imagined world, a dungeon, knowing that the ‘treasure’ they seek by playing the game is impossible to acquire. The game cannot be won, only perhaps eventually abandoned. It may seem counterintuitive to discuss utopia in a game that announces from the beginning that its systems and structures are permanent, and that any attempt to escape them is ultimately futile. However, it is through this surrender to the process that players learn the lessons of continued hope, perseverance, and community that serve as a foundation for much of contemporary utopian thinking. For these reasons, in this chapter I describe The Treasure as a utopia, while also recognising that it may appear dystopian.

The Treasure can be understood as a process for utopia that, through play, invites the players to build their own counternarratives about what is valuable in the world they enter into, and also work together to change that world, even knowing that practically they will never ‘win’ the game. It is necessary to adapt an in-flux knowledge of utopia through a queer and feminist understanding of a future that will never reconcile the painful past. If the players cannot escape the dungeon, then the focus shifts to developing their characters’ relationships through roleplaying. The absurdity of the players’ situation, the cycle of endless dungeon rooms, and the descriptions of characters and rooms, encourage a sense of camaraderie and community. In this sense, the game reflects the structure of utopian hope. For the players, the importance lies in fighting the cycle even when the outcome may never change for, as the game states in the world description, ‘We will never escape this dungeon. We will always try to escape this dungeon.’^[1] It is possible to work towards utopia while being pragmatic in the knowledge that a perfect future does not exist. In the rest of this chapter, I examine the function of archetypal characters, the utopian dimensions of the players’ roleplaying, and how the game mobilises themes of pragmatism in relation to its feminist and queer utopian ideals.

Utopia is a complex term, and how different pieces of media create and present utopia varies wildly. For this chapter, I approach utopia as a practice stemming from discontent that arises from problems in the present, and exploration of possible futures where these problems are solved or nonexistent. Later in this chapter, I will explore how this vision of utopia shifts into focus through a queer and feminist lens. As suggested by Lucy Sargisson’s Fool’s Gold?: Utopianism in the Twenty-First Century (2012)and Erin McKenna’s The Task of Utopia: A Pragmatist and Feminist Perspective (2001), utopia can present visions of a future in which deeply entrenched social, economic and political problems are resolved or transformed. Sargisson writes that utopia is working towards ‘identifying core problems with today […] and placing them in a new imaginary context. They thus imagine how the world might be if the core “wrongs” identified by the author were transformed.’^[2] McKenna explores utopia in relation to the philosophical tradition of pragmatism, and also emphasizes the centrality of hope in interacting with utopian ideals: ‘Utopian visions are visions of hope that can challenge us to explore a range of possible human conditions.’^[3]

Utopia is ostensibly where problems are fixed. The creation of a completely separate and carefully integrated fantasy world has often been central to utopian thinking; and not just that it is separate, but that it is totalising. Fredric Jameson describes the movement away from causal utopias as either obsolete due to an inability to solve any and all social disintegration or due to the unparalleled global wealth and technology; however he argues using utopia as an idea to examine politics is still useful.^[4] Thomas Moylan in Demand the Impossible similarly describes this developing idea of utopia as imperfect and rejects utopia as blueprint, he describes utopia as ‘[f]igures of hope’ through opposition where utopia is ‘produced through the fantasizing powers of the imagination, utopia opposes the affirmative culture maintained by dominant ideology’.^[5] The completely separate utopian world — with readily available solutions for all the problems it seeks to overcome — has fallen out of favor. As Sargisson writes, ‘Most contemporary utopias tend not to offer visions of complete worlds. And most contemporary utopias avoid depicting a single solution; they decline to offer one complete and finished vision of the good life.’^[6] In contemporary society, where political, religious, social, and environmental issues have remained at least as divisive as they have been historically, the idea of a perfect utopia that solves all the major conflicts of our current society seems impractical. The Treasure is fundamentally focused on creation and exploration, while providing enough character descriptions to spurn new identity formation without homogenising identity experiences. For example, there is no perfect solution to climate change, and scientific consensus on its causes has not translated to broad political and public agreement, but this does not preclude the struggle for environmental justice. So progress must be made in a more improvisatory, patchwork way. Similarly, contemporary utopias usually don’t try to articulate one single vision of society that is so compelling nobody could refuse it.

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“Finding Nothing Can Be Finding Something”: Medievalism, Book History, and Accessing the Archives in Patrick Rothfuss’ Kingkiller Chronicle

By Grace Catherine Greiner

This story begins with a book that was given, and then taken away. It was Christmas Eve, the night my family and I traditionally exchange gifts. My youngest sister took her turn doling out packages, many of them small, rectangular—the size of books. My brother and I were recipients of two such similarly-sized, book-shaped packages. We were instructed to open them simultaneously (with the caveat that they might be mixed up, that I might be holding his, and vice versa). I tore off the wrapping paper from my book and behold: it was the wrong book.

This is how Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind (NW) first made its way into my hands:^[1] briefly, and only to be snatched away and swapped with another mainstay of contemporary fantasy writing—Brandon Sanderson’s The Way of Kings. This first encounter, however, is hardly inappropriate given the particular place of books—the ways they circulate, the value they hold, the physical spaces in which they’re stored—in Rothfuss’ Kingkiller Chronicle, a trilogy whose third installment has yet to appear on shelves (though an off-shoot novella, The Slow Regard of Silent Things, has offered readers an interlude while they wait for no. 3).

The Chronicle is, from its earliest chapters, exactly what it says on the box: a chronicle—events which are being written down by the appropriately-monikered Chronicler, who records, by hand, the life events of the narrator, Kvothe—musician, student, and would-be arcanist-turned-innkeeper by the time we meet him in the outer narrative frame of The Name of the Wind. Kvothe’s life story, as told in The Name of the Wind and its sequel, The Wise Man’s Fear,^[2] follows his development as a young boy who grows up among an itinerant troupe of performers (thespians, musicians, and magicians) and is singled out, at a young age, as a prime candidate for education at the (apparently singular) University and instruction in the arcane (read: magical, but also scientific and plastic) arts. Before the troupe’s massacre by the mysterious Chandrian (a traumatic event which kindles his desire to enter the University in order to gain access to its famous Archives and learn more about his family’s killers), Kvothe begins his training in the art of sympathy with the skilled arcanist who travels with the troupe. From this arcanist, he inherits a book—a book that he later hocks to fund his first term’s tuition at the University, where he undertakes study in a variety of subjects, quickly passing from one rank of the Arcanum to the next whilst also facing an inordinate number of extracurricular trials and adventures along the way.

As the title of the trilogy and its first installment suggest, names, stories, and storytelling should be at the forefront of our minds as we read the Chronicle—stories which we witness literally coming into being as stories as we listen to Kvothe tell them and watch Chronicler write them down on one broad sheet of paper after another. But it’s not only stories themselves which fascinate Rothfuss and his characters in the Chronicle. It is also the physical forms through which stories and histories are transmitted that matter. That is, for Rothfuss and his characters, books matter.

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