Monthly Archives: June 2011

Dog Star Adventure

SoftSide's Dog Star Adventure issue

Flipping through early issues of SoftSide magazine, one can’t help but notice a handful of people who are absolutely everywhere, churning out games, tools, applications, even feature articles at a dizzying pace. There’s Scott Adams, of course, who in addition to his adventures also wrote a variety of other card- and board-game adaptations and simple strategy games. There’s the Reverend George Blank, who in addition to editing the magazine and writing a pile of games and utilities for it also authored an article speculating on the possibilities for computer gaming:

Few good computer games have been written so far. Of the good ones, some are adaptations of games like chess and Othello [also known as Reversi] which existed first in another form. These games are good if they add a dimension to the play of the game that is not present in its original form (such as the possibility of solo play), and do so in an aesthetically pleasing form. My personal opinion is that such computer adaptations will play a trivial role in the future of computer games and the best ones will be those which take unique advantage of the computer’s capabilities.

And there’s the man who authored Dog Star Adventure for SoftSide‘s May 1979 issue, Lance Micklus. Before doing so Lance had already written and sold: Concentration (an adaptation of a classic game show); Robot (a maze game); Mastermind I and II (board-game adaptations); Breakaway (a pinball game); Treasure Hunt (a mapping exercise in the Hunt the Wumpus tradition); Renumber (a programmer’s utility); KVP Extender (keyboard utilities); and Personal Finance and Advanced Personal Finance (financial software). Most of all he was known for having written Star Trek III.3, a port of a classic space strategy game that originated on HP Time-Shared BASIC; and a suite of terminal emulation software that allowed TRS-80s to communicate with larger institutional machines and with each other via modem. Quite a portfolio, especially considering that Lance was not a seasoned programmer when he came to the TRS-80, having spent his career working as an electrical engineer in television and radio.

The TRS-80 was perhaps the ideal platform for fostering such Leonardos. Since its graphics capabilities were one step above nonexistent, art assets weren’t exactly a big concern. And then of course its sound capabilities were completely nonexistent, so strike that off the list. Combine this with the fact that 16 K of RAM places a sharp limit on possibilities even for the most ambitious, and virtually any program that was conceivable to implement on the TRS-80 at all was doable — and doable relatively quickly — by a single skilled programmer. There’s something kind of beautiful about that.

Another nice facet of these more innocent programming times was a blissful unawareness of intellectual property rights. Certainly the many adapters of copyrighted board games, not to mention that hugely popular Star Trek game, hadn’t signed contracts with the owners of their respective properties. Dog Star Adventure was “inspired” by the middle act of Star Wars, when the crew of the Millennium Falcon is trapped aboard the Death Star and must rescue Princess Leia and escape. It seems somebody got just a bit nervous this time, however, so the Death Star became the Dog Star, Princess Leia became Princess Leya, Darth Vader became General Doom… you get the picture.

As soon as you start the game the debt it owes to Scott Adams is obvious. Here we see the bridge function that Adams’s early games served in action; Dog Star Adventure was inspired by Adams’s work, having been written by someone without exposure to Adams’s own inspiration of the original Adventure. (UPDATE: Um, not quite. See my brief interview with Lance for more on Dog Star’s influences.) Note the “Obvious Exits” convention, and the shift from second-person to first-person narration that Adams initiated with Adventureland:

The game is somewhat easier than Adventureland, with fewer howlingly unfair puzzles, but it still has its dodgy moments, such as the storage area filled with “all kinds of stuff.”

The storage area with its "all kinds of stuff"

Yes, you need some of that stuff; and yes, you have to guess what is there and what the game wants you to call it. I can’t quite decide whether I like this or hate it; there is a certain element of cleverness to the “puzzle” (imagine my satisfaction when I entered GET BLASTER and it worked).

There are also packs of stormtroopers wandering the complex. Fortunately, you can use the aforementioned blaster to take them out.

Taking down a stormtrooper

Unfortunately (but inevitably), your blaster has a limited amount of ammunition, and you can only GET AMMUNITION once in the storage area. So, you’ll be seeing this quite a lot:


Superficially, your goal in Dog Star Adventure is the same that it was in Adventureland: gather a collection of treasures into a certain location (in this case, the cargo hold of your spaceship). Clearly Mr. Micklus didn’t get the memo about the Sexual Revolution, because even the Princess herself is implemented as just another takeable treasure.

The Princess, a treasure worth 50 points!

Look a little deeper, though, and you’ll find there’s something going on here that is very interesting. Instead of just collecting for hoarding’s sake, all of these treasures (presumably including the Princess) are actually good for something in the context of the plot. You’re collecting fuel for your spaceship; the Princess’s necklace, with a hidden computer chip that encodes “the location and strength of her Freedom Fighting Force”; General Doom’s battle plans, which you have recorded onto a TRS-80 cassette tape (maybe you should have made a few backups?). Nor does the game end immediately when you have collected all the treasures; you must still get the space station’s hangar doors opened somehow and launch your ship. It’s not exactly compelling drama, but there’s the skeleton of a real plot arc here, climaxing in triumph for the Rebel… er, for the Forces of Freedom.

Freedom for the galaxy

In addition to being available on tape from The TRS-80 Software Exchange for the low, low price of $9.95, the complete Dogstar Adventure was also published as a BASIC listing in that May, 1979, issue of SoftSide for the budget-conscious (or the masochistic). One of the things about this era that feels bizarre today even to those of us who were there is how much software was purchased in this excruciatingly non-user-friendly form well into the 1980s. Not only were program listings a staple of the magazines, but bookstore shelves were full of books of them. When we complain about the illogical puzzles and guess-the-verb issues that plague virtually all of these early games, we should remember that it was possible for anyone with modicum of programming knowledge to find answers for herself just using the BASIC LIST command. When Dog Star‘s parser started to frustrate, for example, I hunted down these lines:

30650 VB$(1)="GO":VB$(2)="GET":VB$(3)="LOOK"
30700 VB$(4)="INVEN":VB$(5)="SCORE":VB$(6)="DROP"
30750 VB$(7)="HELP":VB$(8)="SAVE":VB$(9)="LOAD":VB$(10)="QUIT"
30800 VB$(11)="PRESS":VB$(12)="SHOOT":VB$(13)="SAY"
30850 VB$(14)="READ":VB$(15)="EAT":VB$(16)="CSAVE"
30900 VB$(17)="SHOW":VB$(18)="OPEN":VB$(19)="FEED"
30950 VB$(20)="HIT":VB$(21)="KILL"

Right there are all 21 verbs understood by the game. I would submit that source-diving was not only unpreventable but also anticipated, even relied upon, by authors. In this light some of their design choices are perhaps not quite so cruel and bizarre as they initially seem.

As it happens, I got a little bit too well reacquainted with the tribulations of the BASIC transcriber when I played Dogstar in preparation for this post. In one section of the game there’s a security robot who blocks you from escaping the jail area with Princess Leya. This robot likes McDonald’s hamburgers (in another era I would suspect a marketing deal, but as it is I’ll just have to chalk it up to really bad taste in burgers). Luckily there just happens to be a hamburger lying in the crew’s lounge. Thanks to my BASIC source-diving, I thought I had divined the correct syntax to use to feed it to the robot, but the game obstinately refused to accept it. It turns out that the version of the game I was using had a tiny typo, in this line:

7350 X=22:GOSUB21450IFY<>-1PRINTM6$:GOTO2125

It should have read like this:

7350 X=22:GOSUB21450:IFY<>-1PRINTM6$:GOTO2125

That’s the kind of damage that missing a single colon can do when typing in hundreds of lines of BASIC code by hand. Once corrected I could feed the hungry robot at last.

The hamburger-loving robot

And yes, the original listing is all crammed together like that. The TRS-80’s BASIC interpreter doesn’t absolutely require spaces to separate the elements of each statement, and spaces use memory — so off they go, along with other niceties such as comments. Readable Dog Star Adventure is not.

Which makes the important role it played rather surprising. Remember all those hobbyists interested in creating their own text adventures? Well, as a competently put-together game conveniently provided to them in print (printers were still a rarity in these days), Dog Star gave them a model to follow in doing just that. (While Scott Adams’s adventures were also coded in BASIC, none was printed in a magazine until 1980, and their interpreter/data-file design made them more difficult to deconstruct than Dog Star‘s admittedly less flexible all-in-one approach.) Lance Micklus himself became increasingly absorbed with his communication products, forming a company of his own later in 1979 to market them, and never coded another text adventure. And yet his fingerprints are all over early text-adventure history, as countless bedroom coders built their own designs from the skeleton he had provided. That, even more so than its hints of actual plotting, is the biggest historical legacy of Dog Star Adventure.

Next time we’ll drop in on Scott Adams again, who like Lance Micklus had a very busy 1979. In the meantime, if you’d like to try Dog Star Adventure I won’t make you type it in from scratch. Here’s a saved state for the MESS TRS-80 Level 2 emulator — and yes, the hamburger-eating robot works correctly in this version.


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Adventureland, Part 2

The idea of a computer program as a salable artifact that one purchases like one would a book or record album was still quite a new one in 1978. In the world of institutional computing, commercial software was largely confined to operating systems and the most complicated, critical applications such as compilers, and was created and sold by the same companies that produced the hardware on which it ran; TOPS-10 was a product of DEC itself, Time-Shared BASIC a product of Hewlett-Packard, etc. These programs were sold not as individual products with fixed price tags, but rather negotiated as part of complicated contracts that also involved the hardware to run them and the personnel to support them. Software created by end-users of these machines was often so specialized as to be useless outside of the site where it was created, and where this was not the case was distributed freely. Since there was no real commercial market for stand-alone software, there was no incentive to do anything else.

That began to change virtually from the moment that the microcomputer age began. The first piece of standalone microcomputer commercial software was created by the company that would (for better or for worse) become synonymous with the closed-source commercial model of software distribution: Microsoft. That company’s first product, created in 1975 while Bill Gates and Paul Allen were still scruffy university students, was a version of BASIC sold on paper tape for the Altair 8800 kit computer. On February 3, 1976, Gates sent an “open letter to hobbyists” that has since become famous. In it he derided the widespread copying of Microsoft’s software, noting that, while seemingly every Altair owner was using BASIC, fewer than 10% had actually bought it, and claiming that he and Allen’s financial reward for their time spent developing it amounted to less than $2.00 per hour. Hobbyists reacted to the letter with surprise and a fair amount of outrage. It’s probably fair to say that the concept of software that was not freely distributable, and thus the very idea of software “piracy,” had never occurred to them, so antithetical was it to the ethos of sharing and open information exchange of places like the Homebrew Computer Club. One Jim Warren replied:

There is a valid alternative to the problems raised by Bill Gates in his irate letter to computer hobbyists concerning “ripping off” software. When software is free, or so inexpensive that it’s easier to pay for it than to duplicate it, then it won’t be “stolen.”

Note the use of quotations around “ripping off” and “stolen,” as if these concepts in relation to software are farcical. The debate touched off by Gates and Warren still rages to this day. It’s also a morass I know better than to wade into here. Suffice to say that after Altair BASIC the proverbial cat was out of the bag, and software distribution was changed forever.

As I noted in an earlier post, Radio Shack was wise enough to realize that good software support was very important to the success of its new computer (an obvious fact that Commodore, among others, never seemed to fully grasp). Since almost all TRS-80s were sold from Radio Shack stores, the company had a great opportunity to create that support by encouraging submissions from hobbyists programmers and selling the best right alongside the computers themselves. It’s therefore kind of odd that most of the best and most interesting TRS-80 programs were not published by Radio Shack. Presumably the drawbacks of dealing with a huge, faceless corporation’s acquisitions department outweighed the distribution advantages.

The main facilitator of software distribution in this era was instead rather surprising: the magazines. Creative Computing had of course been publishing program listings in BASIC for years before the arrival of the TRS-80 and its competitors, and continued to do so now. And with an October, 1978, issue SoftSide magazine, the first TRS-80-specific magazine and I believe the first platform-specific magazine of any stripe, began publication with this mission statement:

Our intention is to publish software — and lots of it, free for the transcription. Every month we will offer programs for business, games, programs with household applications, even educational programs for children that will allow your home computer to become the educational aid we always knew it could be. Our content will be as diverse and unique as our featured programs’ writers.

Of course, that “transcription” made for one hell of a pain; laboriously typing in the hundreds of lines of code for some of the surprisingly complex programs that SoftSide published was No Fun, no matter how enamored you were with your new computer — and that’s not even considering the subtle bugs that could be introduced by getting a letter or a digit wrong here or there. Therefore SoftSide also sold an optional accompanying cassette for each issue, which contained all the programs published therein.

But that was only the beginning. Even before the birth of the magazine, SoftSide‘s publishers had formed The TRS-80 Software Exchange as a distribution organ for commercial software. In fact, the cynical might say that they formed Softside largely to promote TSE; each issue devoted a considerable number of pages to catalog listings of TSE’s titles, with the most commercially promising also being accorded individual half- or full-page spreads. In a sense, TSE was one of the first software publishers — but only in a sense. Publishing with TSE carried an advantage developers would kill for today:

You retain the rights to the programs you worked so hard to write. If your programs don’t sell, you don’t make money, so why tie up your software with an exclusive contract? With SoftSide, you’re free to market through us, and still sell your programs privately or through other non-exclusive arrangements. We prefer to let our performance be the only “tie that binds.”

What a deal, eh? No wonder so many hobbyists programmers desperate to get their programs into the hands of the masses and earn a little scratch along the way rushed to send in their creations. Scott Adams was among them; even before coding Adventureland he released a “3D tic-tac-toe” and a backgammon game through TSE. And like many others, he took full advantage of TSE’s generous terms by releasing as well through Creative Computing Software, a similar organ set up by that magazine, and also by selling what he could on his own. (For some fun anecdotes about what that was like, check out Matt Barton’s interview with Adams.) All of this occurred fully a year before Adams founded Adventure International, a real software publisher of his own. Adventureland first appeared in SoftSide‘s January, 1979, issue, being sold for $24.95 in tandem with a second adventure Scott had already written by that time with his then-wife, Alexis. Called Pirate Adventure, this game is both easier and more fondly remembered by most players than Adventureland itself.

It’s amusing to look back today on how naive and clumsy the early commercial game market was. Adams and TSE can’t even seem to settle on a name. In addition to its (presumably) real name, Adventureland appears in TSE advertisements as simply Adventure (now that’s a recipe for confusion!) or, my favorite, the evocative and enticing Land Adventure. (Well, I guess it’s factually accurate…) The second game, meanwhile, vacillates among Pirate Adventure, Pirate’s Adventure, and Pirate’s Cove.

But none of that mattered a jot. Adams’s adventures were absolutely unique, and they were being sold into a growing market hungry for interesting and entertaining new games. Most TRS-80 owners had no access to the large institutional machines that ran the original Adventure, making Adams’s games their first exposure to the form, the bridge that brought the innovations of Crowther and Woods to the burgeoning world of home computing. Like all those PDP-10 hackers, once they had solved Adams’s games many TRS-80 programmers started thinking about how to create their own. And so a genre was well and truly born.


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Adventureland, Part 1

Scott Adams occupies an odd position in interactive fiction in that he tends to get more love from those outside the active modern community than from those within it. Every year brings one or two fawning interviews with the always obliging Mr. Adams on mainstream or retro-gaming sites. Within the IF community, however, Adams’s works are usually mentioned, if at all, only as historical curiosities, and certainly aren’t accorded even a sliver of the respect given to the Infocom canon, outside of a handful of reactionary voices who declare this lack of respect for Adams’s simplistic but fun games to be symptomatic of the general literary pretensions of the community as a whole that have made the modern text adventure a No Fun Allowed zone. (For a classic and entertaining rant in this vein, see the discussion page of the Adventureland Wikipedia entry.) Further confusing the issue is an unfortunate if blessedly only occasional tendency toward self-aggrandizement on Adams’s own part, such as the FAQ entry on his home page that states he is “credited [by whom?] with starting the entire multi billion dollar a year computer game industry.” “Helping to start” I would be fine with, but as it stands… really, Scott? You singlehandedly started the computer-game industry?

Still, Adams does deserve more credit and respect than he generally receives within community circles for bringing text adventures into homes for the first time and, not incidentally, showing that one could make a pretty good living from the things. His creation of a playable adventure game on a TRS-80 with just 16 K of RAM and a cassette drive was conceptually audacious and technically impressive, and that he did it in the slow, inefficient TRS-80 BASIC just made it even more remarkable. Adams’s greatest failing in the long run was perhaps his inability to make the transition from treasure-hunting text adventures to the more sophisticated storytelling of Infocom’s interactive fiction, as evidenced by his seeming disinterest in improving the core technology of his games beyond gilding these simplistic lillies with graphics and colors. But that’s material for later posts. Today I want to talk about Adams’s initial masterstroke, Adventureland.

Born in 1952, Adams already had extensive professional experience with computers before he created Adventureland in 1978, having majored in the field at the Florida Institute of Technology, worked with computers during a stint in the Navy, and found employment thereafter with Stromberg-Carlson, an early manufacturer of telephone PBX equipment, as a programmer. Adams had also been building and experimenting with microcomputers in his home since 1975, when he built a Sphere 1 from a kit. Beginning with a tic-tac-toe game which “could never lose,” his main activity with these machines had been writing and playing games. Like so many other hackers, he was entranced when Adventure turned up on the computer at his workplace, and, also like so many others, after completing it at last he turned his attention to writing his own. But unlike the others, who did their work on big institutional computers, Adams chose the little TRS-80 as his target platform.

Adams did not set out with grand ideas about bringing interactive narrative to the masses. In standard hacker fashion, he was drawn to the project as an interesting technical challenge in light of the constraints of the TRS-80, and as a chance to work extensively with text, something he hadn’t done previously. As an experienced programmer, Adams shared most hackers’ preference for creating robust, reusable systems and tools in lieu of one-off programs, and so began working not so much on an adventure game as on a reusable adventure implementation system. He thus divided the project into three parts: a database editor of sorts to let him input the data that would make up the virtual world of each game, an interpreter to read in that data and let the player interact with it, and finally the data that made up the game itself.

It’s a remarkable system, but it also should be understood that Adams did not create a full-fledged virtual machine in the sense of Infocom’s later Z-Machine. While the interpreter does indeed read in the details of rooms, objects, etc., much functionality is hard-coded into the BASIC interpreter. The engine, for instance, assumes that gameplay will revolve around gathering a collection of objects (treasures) and dropping them back in a certain location. Any but the most basic modifications to the Adventureland game will also require modifying the code of the interpreter, if only because the name of the game itself and instructions for play are hard-coded there.

It’s really a hybrid system, surprisingly similar in its construction to Adventure itself, which also divided its functionality between the program code and a data file.

In fact, having just played through the original Adventureland I’m struck by how many similarities it bears to its predecessor. Like Adventure, Adventureland is a plot-less treasure hunt that begins above-ground in a forest.

Adventureland‘s wilderness area is actually larger and more interesting than Adventure‘s, containing a number of puzzles in its own right beyond the obvious one of finding one’s way underground. Its underground complex is, however, vastly smaller, as one would expect given the constraints Adams was working under. This is not entirely to the game’s disadvantage, as Adams’s inability to indulge himself with dozens of empty locations keeps things much more tightly focused and manageable for the player; the obligatory maze, for example, consists of a modest six rooms, a marked and welcome contrast to Adventure‘s monstrosities.

Which is not to say that Adventureland is exactly playable, at least by modern standards. The above-ground areas are filled with the usual non-reversable room connections that make mapping and navigation a non-intuitive pain, redeemed (once again) only by the fact that there are so few locations in all. The logistics of light sources and inventory management are once again a big part of the challenge, and there are heaps of ways to screw up and make the game unwinnable, many unhinted at before they happen. To understand the full cruelty of this, you have to put yourself in the shoes of someone playing the game on an actual TRS-80, where it is only possible to restore a saved position by restarting the game entirely from cassette, a process that takes about 25 minutes. Saving a game, meanwhile, takes over 4 minutes. No wonder Adams could advertise that Adventureland would take weeks or months to complete! What he didn’t mention was that in addition to a TRS-80 it would require the patience of Job…

I notice the same dichotomy in Adventureland‘s puzzles that I wrote about with respect to Adventure‘s: most are either very straightforward and commonsensical or unfair to the point of absurdity, with only a few occupying a satisfying middle ground. Also like Adventure, Adventureland is surprisingly progressive in some ways, managing to shoehorn a fair number of hints into its 16 K, but also leaves some of its worst offending puzzles totally unclued. An example is the bear puzzle (a character whose presence is yet another echo of Adventure). He is blocking your way, and can be moved only by the completely unmotivated action of YELLing. Later versions did allow the player to SCREAM at the bear (see Grunion Guy’s review for an hilarious anecdote related to that), but in this original version it was YELLing or nothing.

To make this puzzle even worse, the bear is described as “looking hungry.” This naturally leads the player to want to feed him the honey which she can find elsewhere in the game, which in fact works — except that said honey is also a treasure (?!) she needs to collect to finish the game. Not only is all this supremely cruel, but, just to make it all worse, the false solution actually makes for a much fairer and more satisfying puzzle than the correct one.

Granted, Adventureland‘s extremely primitive parser and world model do once again perhaps make it difficult to build really challenging puzzles that don’t spill over into unfairness. Its implementation of the THROW verb is quite interesting, as it already shows Adams struggling with the limitations of his two-word parser.

It’s not really fair to judge Adventureland‘s text by literary standards, since every “the” and “a” use precious memory (and thus were often dropped entirely). Still, Adams does at times achieve a sort of minimalist poetry.

He does have some issues with spelling…

…but there’s a sort of goofy charm about the whole experience…

…which finally comes down to this.

And that’s about all there is to say about it, really. There are no advances over the treasure-hunt template laid down by Adventure, but Adventureland is an impressive achievement merely for existing, and even today is still kind of fun in its simple way.

If you’d like to play it for yourself, there are plenty of ways to do so, the most accessible of which is a browser-based version at iFiction. Scott Adams himself hosts downloadable versions on his website. Or, if you want the most authentic experience possible, I have a MESS TRS-80 saved state that will let you play the original BASIC version on its original (virtual) hardware. (See my notes on MESS TRS-80 emulation to get started.)

Next time I’ll talk about Adventureland‘s marketing and reception and the TRS-80 adventure-game craze it started.


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Eliza, Part 3

The most obvious legacy of Eliza is the legions of similar chatterbots which have followed, right up to the present day. But what does Eliza mean to the history of interactive narrative? Or, put another way: why did I feel the need to backtrack and shoehorn it in now?

One answer is kind of blindingly obvious. When someone plays Eliza she enters into a text-based dialog with a computer program. Remind you of something? Indeed, if one took just a superficial glance at an Eliza session and at a session of Adventure one might assume that both programs are variations on the same premise. This is of course not the case; while Eliza is “merely” a text-generation engine, with no deeper understanding, Adventure and its antecedents allow the player to manipulate a virtual world through textual commands, and so cannot get away with pretending to understand the way that Eliza can. Still, it’s almost certain that Will Crowther would have been aware of Eliza when he began to work on Adventure, and its basic mode of interaction may have influenced him. Lest I be accused of stretching Eliza‘s influence too far, it’s also true that almost all computer / human interaction of the era was in the form of a textual dialog; command-line interfaces ruled the day, after all. The really unique element shared by Eliza and Adventure was the pseudo-natural language element of that interaction. Just on that basis Eliza stands as an important forerunner to full-fledged interactive fiction.

But to just leave it at that, as I’m afraid I kind of did when I wrote my little history of IF a number of years ago now, is to miss most of what makes Eliza such a fascinating study. At a minimum, the number of scholars who have been drawn to Eliza despite having little or no knowledge of or interest in its place in the context of IF history points to something more. Maybe we can tease out what that might be by looking at Eliza‘s initial reception, and at Joseph Weizenbaum’s reaction to it.

Perhaps the first person to interact extensively with Eliza was Weizenbaum’s secretary: “My secretary, who had watched me work on the program for many months and therefore surely knew it to be merely a computer program, started conversing with it. After only a few interchanges with it, she asked me to leave the room.” Her reaction was not unusual; Eliza became something of a sensation at MIT and the other university campuses to which it spread, and Weizenbaum an unlikely minor celebrity. Mostly people just wanted to talk with Eliza, to experience this rare bit of approachable fun in a mid-1960s computing world that was all Business (IBM) or Quirky Esoterica (the DEC hackers). Some, however, treated the program with a seriousness that seems a bit baffling today. There were even suggestions that it might be useful for actual psychotherapy. Carl Sagan, later of Cosmos fame, was a big fan of this rather horrifying idea, which a group of psychologists actually managed to get published as a serious article in The Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases:

Further work must be done before the program will be ready for clinical use. If the method proves beneficial, then it would provide a therapeutic tool which can be made widely available to mental hospitals and psychiatric centers suffering a shortage of therapists. Because of the time-sharing capabilities of modern and future computers, several hundreds patients an hour could be handled by a computer system designed for this purpose. The human therapist, involved in the design and operation of the system, would not be replaced, but would become a much more efficient man since his efforts would no longer be limited to the one-to-one patient-therapist as now exists.

Weizenbaum’s reaction to all of this has become almost as famous as the Eliza program itself. When he saw people like his secretary engaging in lengthy heart-to-hearts with Eliza, it… well, it freaked him the hell out. The phenomenon Weizenbaum was observing was later dubbed “the Eliza effect” by Sherry Turkle, which she defined as the tendency “to project our feelings onto objects and to treat things as though they were people.” In computer science and new media circles, the Eliza effect has become shorthand for a user’s tendency to assume based on its surface properties that a program is much more sophisticated, much more intelligent, than it really is. Weizenbaum came to see this as not just personally disturbing but as dangerous to the very social fabric, an influence that threatened the ties that bind us together and, indeed, potentially threatened our very humanity. Weizenbaum’s view, in stark contrast to those of people like Marvin Minsky and John McCarthy at MIT’s own Artificial Intelligence Laboratory, was that human intelligence, with its affective, intuitive qualities, could never be duplicated by the machinery of computing — and that we tried to do so at our peril. Ten years on from Eliza, he laid out his ideas in his magnum opus, Computer Power and Human Reason, a strong push-back against the digital utopianism that dominated in many computing circles at the time.

Weizenbaum wrote therein of his students at MIT, which was of course all about science and technology. He said that they “have already rejected all ways but the scientific to come to know the world, and [they] seek only a deeper, more dogmatic indoctrination in that faith (although that word is no longer in their vocabulary).” He certainly didn’t make too many friends among the hackers when he described them like this:

Bright young men of disheveled appearance, often with sunken glowing eyes, can be seen sitting at computer consoles, their arms tensed and waiting to fire their fingers, already poised to strike, at the buttons and keys on which their attention seems to be riveted as a gambler’s on the rolling dice. When not so transfixed, they often sit at tables strewn with computer printouts over which they pore like possessed students of a cabbalistic text. They work until they nearly drop, twenty, thirty hours at a time. Their food, if they arrange it, is brought to them: coffee, Cokes, sandwiches. If possible, they sleep on cots near the printouts. Their rumpled clothes, their unwashed and unshaven faces, and their uncombed hair all testify that they are oblivious to their bodies and the world in which they move.

Although Weizenbaum claimed to be basing this description at least to some extent on his own experiences of becoming too obsessed with his work, there’s some evidence that his antipathy for the hardcore hackers at MIT was already partially in place even before Eliza. It’s worth noting that Weizenbaum chose to write Eliza not on the hackers’ beloved DEC, but rather on a big IBM 7094 mainframe located in another part of MIT’s campus; according to Steven Levy, Weizenbaum had “rarely interacted with” the hardcore hacker contingent.

Still, I’m to a large degree sympathetic with Weizenbaum’s point of view. Having watched a parade of young men come through his classes who could recite every assembler opcode on the PDP but had no respect or understanding of aesthetics, of history, of the simple good fellowship two close friends find over a bottle of wine, he pleads for balance, for a world where those with the knowledge to create and employ technology are also possessed of humanity and wisdom. It’s something we could use more of in our world of Facebook “friends” and Twitter “conversations.” I feel like Weizenbaum every time I wander over to Slashdot and its thousands of SLNs — Soulless Little Nerds, whose (non-videogame) cultural interests extend no further than Tolkien and superheroes, who think that Sony’s prosecution of a Playstation hacker is the human-rights violation of our times. It’s probably the reason I ended up studying the humanities in university instead of computer science; the humanities people were just so much more fun to talk with. I’m reminded of Watson’s initial description of his new roommate Sherlock Holmes’s character in A Study in Scarlet:

1. Knowledge of literature — nil.
2. Knowledge of philosophy — nil.
3. Knowledge of astronomy — nil.
4. Knowledge of politics — feeble.
5. Knowledge of botany — variable. Well up in belladonna, opium and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.
6. Knowledge of geology — practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks, has shown me splashes upon his trousers and told me by their color and consistence in what part of London he has received them.
7. Knowledge of chemistry — profound.
8. Knowledge of anatomy — accurate, but unsystematic.
9. Knowledge of sensational literature — immense. He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetuated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of English law.

No wonder Watson moved out and Arthur Conan Doyle started adjusting his hero’s character pretty early on. Who’d want to live with this guy?

All that aside, I also believe that, at least in his strong reaction to the Eliza effect itself, Weizenbaum was missing something pretty important. He believed that his parlor trick of a program had induced “powerful delusional thinking in quite normal people.” But that’s kind of an absurd notion, isn’t it? Could his own secretary, who, as he himself stated, had “watched [Weizenbaum] work on the program for many months,” really believe that in those months he had, working all by himself, created sentience? I’d submit that she was perfectly aware that Eliza was a parlor trick of one sort or another, but that she willingly surrendered to the fiction of a psychotherapy session. It’s no great insight to state that human beings are eminently capable of “believing” two contradictory things at once, nor that we willingly give ourselves over to fictional worlds we know to be false all the time. Doing so is in the very nature of stories, and we do it every time we read a novel, see a movie, play a videogame. Not coincidentally, the rise of the novel and of the movie were both greeted with expressions of concern that were not all that removed from those Weizenbaum expressed about Eliza.

There’s of course a million philosophical places we could go with these ideas, drawing from McLuhan and Baudrillard and a hundred others, but we don’t want to entirely derail this little series on computer-game history, do we? So, let’s stick to Eliza and look at what Sherry Turkle wrote of the way that people actively helped along the fiction of a psychotherapy session:

As one becomes experienced with the ways of Eliza, one can direct one’s remarks either to “help” the program make seemingly pertinent responses or to provoke nonsense. Some people embark on an all-out effort to “psych out” the program, to understand its structure in order to trick it and expose it as a “mere machine.” Many more do the opposite. I spoke with people who told me of feeling “let down” when they had cracked the code and lost the illusion of mystery. I often saw people trying to protect their relationships with Eliza by avoiding situations that would provoke the program into making a predictable response. They didn’t ask questions that they knew would “confuse” the program, that would make it “talk nonsense.” And they went out of their way to ask questions in a form that they believed would provoke a lifelike response. People wanted to maintain the illusion that Eliza was able to respond to them.

If we posit, then, that Eliza‘s interactors were knowingly suspending their disbelief and actively working to maintain the fiction of a psychotherapy session, the implications are pretty profound, because now we have people in the mid-1960s already seriously engaging with a digital “interactive fiction” of sorts. We see here already the potential and the appeal of the computer as a storytelling medium, not as a tool to create stories from whole cloth. Eliza‘s interlocutors are engaging with a piece of narrative art generated by a very human artist, Weizenbaum himself (not that he would likely have described himself in those terms). This is what story writers and story readers have always done. Unlike Weizenbaum, I would consider the reception of Eliza not a cause for concern but a cause for excitement and anticipation. “If you think Eliza is exciting,” we might say to that secretary, “just wait until the really good stuff hits.” Hell, I get retroactive buzz just thinking about it.

And that buzz is the real reason why I wanted to talk about Eliza.


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Eliza, Part 2

Just to be sure we understand what Eliza does and doesn’t do, I thought it might be instructive to look at an actual conversation from under the hood. What follows is an only slightly modified version of the sample run included in the July/August, 1977, issue of Creative Computing that introduced the BASIC Eliza. (Specifically, I changed the original reference to an IMSAI 8080 to a Tandy in keeping with this blog’s recent theme.) It’s a much less compelling example than the famous transcript I included in my last post, which is partly down to the acknowledged inferiority of this version of Eliza and partly down to Creative Computing choosing to interact the way a person more typically might — i.e., by trying to take the piss out of the program just a bit rather than playing along with the psychologist / patient relationship. In that sense I’d call it a more honest reflection of Eliza‘s capabilities and limitations, and of the average user’s experience with it.

At the heart of the program is a routine that searches each input for one of a group of text sequences. In order of priority, they are:

1. “CAN YOU”
2. “CAN I”
3. “YOU ARE”
4. “YOU’RE”
5. “I DON’T”
6. “I FEEL”
8. “WHY CAN’T I”
9. “ARE YOU”
10. “I CAN’T”
11. “I AM”
12. “I’M ”
13. “YOU ”
14. “I WANT”
15. “WHAT”
16. “HOW”
17. “WHO”
18. “WHERE”
19. “WHEN”
20. “WHY”
21. “NAME”
22. “CAUSE”
23. “SORRY”
24. “DREAM”
25. “HELLO”
26. “HI ”
27. “MAYBE”
28. ” NO”
29. “YOUR”
30. “ALWAYS”
31. “THINK”
32. “ALIKE”
33. “YES”
34. “FRIEND”

As soon as one of these sequences is found, it is taken as the key sequence for the input as a whole, and no more searching is done. In other words, “COMPUTER” could be taken as the key sequence only if the input text does not contain any of the previous 34 sequences.

? I AM AN IBM 370

When Eliza finds a key sequence, it responds with a set sequence of its own. In this case, it has latched onto the sequence “I AM” in the input. Having done so, it automatically throws away all of the input through that point, leaving just “AN IBM 370.” It then looks up the appropriate response pattern, which is “DID YOU COME HERE BECAUSE YOU ARE…”, followed by the remainder of the original input.

(Oh, and just so everyone gets the joke: an IBM 370 was an extremely large and powerful mainframe computer of the era; thus its repeated talking down to the little Radio Shack microcomputer.)


This time there are two possible matches: “YES” and “I WANT.” However, “I WANT” has higher priority, so Eliza throws away all of the input text through that point, which incidentally includes the “YES.” The appropriate response to “I WANT” is “WHAT WOULD IT MEAN TO YOU IF YOU GOT…”, followed by the remainder of the input.

? ABOUT 1800 LPM

We’ve given Eliza nothing to latch onto here; no sequence matches at all. Therefore it falls back on a canned response for such situations.


There are a few matches this time, but “YOU’RE” has the highest priority, so Eliza throws everything away up to that point and appends the remainder to the appropriate response, “WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I AM…”


Key: “YOUR”


Not all response sequences incorporate the original input. In this case, the key “YOU ” results in the canned response “WE WERE DISCUSSING YOU– NOT ME.”


The key sequence this time is “I’M “. Eliza turns to the same response sequence for both “I AM” and “I’M “, as one might expect.


Key: “SORRY”

(Presumably, this is — leaving aside the obvious Beatles reference — an in-joke having to do with the IBM 370. If anyone reading this knows what exactly is being referred to here, by all means enlighten us in the comments.)


Yet again “I AM” is the key sequence. However, notice that the response is not quite the same. For most keys, Eliza cycles through several response sequences, hopefully masking somewhat the automated nature of the whole process. In the case of “I AM,” there are four possible responses. (Due to an idiosyncrasy in the program, synonyms such as “I AM” and “I’M” are each run through their own cycle even though they draw from the same list of responses.)


Once again we have given Eliza nothing to go on, so it falls back on the second of seven possible noncommittal responses.


Our second use of “YOU’RE” results in the second of four possible responses to that sequence.


And our second use of “YOU ” results in the second of three possible response to that sequence.


Here we have the first real breakdown, and it’s an illustrative failure indeed. Eliza discovered yet another use of “I AM,” our third now, and so turns to the third response, “DO YOU BELIEVE IT IS NORMAL TO BE…” Based on what we’ve seen so far, we might expect the full reply to be, “DO YOU BELIEVE IT IS NORMAL TO BE BEGINNING TO WONDER ABOUT YOU,” which is obviously inappropriate. To account for situations like this, Eliza always attempts to modify the input-text fragments that it reprints, by changing first-person pronoun references to second-person and vice versa, and attempting to do some simplistic to-be verb conjugation. To be precise, it replaces sequences in the input text like so:

” AM ” <--> ” ARE ”
“WAS ” <--> “WERE ”
” I ” <--> ” YOU ”
“MY ” <--> “YOUR ”
” I’VE ” <--> ” YOU’VE ”
” I’M ” <--> ” YOU’RE ”

Eliza has in fact been searching reprinted fragments all along for these sequences, but has not found any until now. And now that it does, it gets it wrong, falling afoul of the fact that in English the second-person pronoun is the same in both the nominative and the accusative, but the first-person pronoun is different. Since it lacks any structural understanding of the English language and can only replace sequences of characters with other sequences, it replaces “YOU” with “I” rather than “ME.”


Key: “YOU ”
Result: “YOU’RE NOT REALLY TALKING ABOUT ME, ARE YOU?” (response 3 of 3)


Key: none
Result: Noncommittal response 3 of 7.


Here we have another “failure” of sorts that this time actually works within the context of the conversation. Eliza takes the sequence “YES” from the word “EYES” as its key, resulting in the first of three possible responses to that sequence. Considering the non-sequitur that might have resulted, Eliza just dodged a bullet.


Result: “DO COMPUTERS WORRY YOU?” (response 1 of 7)


Key: “I AM”
Result: “DO YOU ENJOY BEING” + “A 370” (response 4 of 4)

…and so on. I’m sure you get the gist of it by now. Having beaten this particular dead horse into the ground, I’ll wrap up this topic next time by talking about what the experience of Eliza ultimately means — to me, to Joseph Weizenbaum, and maybe to you.


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