On A Card Game

I like card games. In fact, I liked card games so much that my siblings and I made one. (Actually, I forced them to help me make it).

Cleverly titled "A Card Game", the card game shamelessly stole ideas from every place imaginable. (Read: I stole ideas from every place imaginable). The very concept of the gameplay was lifted almost directly from an online game. What's more, the first cards off the press were based on the blandest, most mundane fantasy characters, with names such as "Regular Healer" and "Normal Knight". Those were their actual names.

Then, I gradually stole names from other genres, making "sets": There was a set based off of Winnie the Pooh characters (Piglet allowed you to take permanent control of the other player's cards and was way too strong), a set based off of A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (Vogon Poetry instantly killed anything), a set based off of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (they crawled out of Portable Toilets), and so on. The best set was the Harry-Potter-But-Also-Animal-Puns set, which started off either (a) when I accidentally drew Harry Potter looking too much like a cow, or (b) when I accidentally drew a cow with a lighting-bolt-shaped scar. I forget which. Regardless, the error inspired such brilliances as "Albus Dumbleboar", "Professor McDonaldgal" (as in Old McDonald), "Ginny Ferrety", and "Severus Snake".

I'm proud of A Card Game. Despite the fact that it suffers from crippling balance issues, insane deck sizes, and way too many awful cards, it was still a lot of fun. I don't really play it anymore, although I still possess almost every card I made. Every one of them has awful, hand-drawn pencil art that could be easily outdone by a third grader. It's hilarious.

-Me

P.S. I wish I could post pictures, but my current phone is bad at doing that.

Parallel Universes, An Infinity Machine, And Permanently Great Hair

There's a theory in quantum mechanics called the parallel universe theory. It basically says that for every possibility, there exists a universe for that possibility. What are the implications of such a theory?

Assume the theory is true. I flip a coin. The result could be either heads or tails, right? According to the parallel universe theory, at the very instant I flip the coin, the result is actually both heads and tails. This is a phenomenon called "superposition", which says that something exists in all possible states of its existence until it is observed. (Sidenote: Superposition is made awesome in the Schrödinger's cat thought experiment, in which a cat is both dead and alive.) I'm not making this up -- it's weird, but so is all of quantum mechanics.

Now I take a look at the coin. The instant I look at the coin, the universe splits into two different universes: One where I got heads, and another where I got tails.

In fact, the universe splits like this every time something happens, constantly. Barack Obama wins the 2008 election: Universe splits (into a universe where Obama won, and a universe where McCain won). Sam Walton founds Walmart: Universe splits (into one where he does, one where he doesn't). I take a sip of water: Universe splits. Again, I'm not making this up.

Let's go back to the coin example. You may be asking yourself: So what? Even if this is true, the "me" that got tails can't see or interact with the "me" that got heads. We are in different universes, we have separate consciousnesses, and we can't influence each other in any way. For all intents and purposes, we are different people. Well, you're mostly right. But let's take this idea a little further.

Say you make a machine -- here dubbed the Infinity Machine, or iM* -- that can detect whether the coin is heads or tails. If the coin is heads, it does nothing; if the coin is tails, it sets off every nuclear bomb in the world simultaneously. (Stay with me, here.). In effect, what the iM does is destroy the world in every parallel universe in which the coin was tails. (I will address the moral quandary of this in a little bit; please continue staying with me.) Notice the power of such a machine. With the iM, you can control the outcome of any event.

For example, what if you reconfigure the iM so it goes off whenever you don't win the lottery? Then the world in every parallel universe in which you don't win the lottery is destroyed, and the only universes that matter are ones where you win the lottery. All consciousness will cease when you don't win the lottery; basically, you've guaranteed that you will always win the lottery.

If this constant lottery winning seems dubious to you, remember: The parallel universe theory says that for every possibility, there exists a universe. No matter how unlikely a thing is, there is a universe with that thing happening. There is a universe where I've won Sexist Man Alive twenty years in a row and am still going strong.** There is a universe where I am exactly the same, but can somehow breathe fire. There is a universe where the events of "A Bug's Life" happened exactly as they appeared onscreen, and then Flik the Inventor made the movie "Antz", except called "Personz" and with people. There is a universe where I made an actual, functioning Iron Man suit, but I only use it as a Halloween costume. I can't emphasize how not-making-this-up I am right now.

As you can see, the possibilities with the iM are endless (infinite, even). Set it to go off when you don't win the lottery, but don't let your imagination stop you there. Set it to go off whenever you don't have great hair. Set it to go off whenever a kind, trustworthy man doesn't give you free ice cream every day. Set it to go off whenever any of these things don't happen -- then you would always win the lottery, always have great hair, and always get free ice cream. You control the outcome of any event, always.

Okay, let's talk about morality. You have a machine that can do anything; the only problem is that it ends countless lives by destroying entire worlds. My question is: If everyone's consciousness ends at the same time, is that such a tragedy? There will be no more human emotion in the worlds you've destroyed, no one to feel sad about their destruction. Moreover, countless worlds will live on. If you make an iM that gives you great hair, only universes where you have great hair will matter.

Perhaps it seems arrogant to say that the quality of your hair dictates whether human consciousness will cease or persist. But again, consciousness will only cease for those universes you have bad hair in; all others will continue to blossom and spiral out into their endless possibilities. The infinite bad hair universes you've destroyed will become inconsequential compared to the infinite good hair universes that would have existed anyway. They'll be a drop in an ocean of possibilities.

What about all the animals, environments, and natural beauty you've obliterated? Well, remember: Every fish, tree, and rock will continue to exist in the worlds the iM hasn't destroyed; the only difference is, in the worlds where they do exist, you will have great hair. Again, consciousness ends when you get bad hair. You don't get to see those bad hair universes getting destroyed. You don't feel the emotional impact of their loss, you can't contact them in any way whatsoever. You just get to know that you will always have good hair, no matter what. You will only know about universes where you have good hair, and never have to worry about it.

-Me

*Because lowercase "i"s seem to be in style these days.
**That's this universe.

TEWWG, Framing Devices, And Storytelling

We've started reading Their Eyes Were Watching God, a book by Zora Neale Hurston, in English class. It's really good, but I'll get to that in a minute.

I like to think about the ways we tell stories, both to ourselves and other people. Oftentimes, the craft (or the method by which we tell a story) is just as important as the content -- if not moreso. Our gestures, our tone of voice, our excitement, and our expression are all of significance in the storytelling experience. That's why I so enjoy the literary trope of the framing device.

A framing device is a technique in which a secondary story "frames" a primary story, or a sort of justification for a story's existence. For example, in the sitcom How I Met Your Mother, the episodic events (the "primary story") are all framed within the context of Ted telling an absurdly long and increasingly unbelievable story to his kids (the "secondary story"). Within the primary story, other people tell shorter, tertiary stories. The show leverages its framing device in clever ways, allowing for unexpected plot twists and clever revelations.

Another example which I like is the tale of One Thousand And One Nights. There existed a cruel Arabian king who would marry a woman each day, spend the night with her, and have her executed in the morning. Lather, rinse, repeat. Seeing people slaughtered around her each day, a woman named Scheherazade came up with a plan to stop the insane ruler. She married the king and, on their wedding night, began to tell him an intriguing story, which she ended on a cliffhanger. Come next morning, the king decided to spare her for an additional night so he could hear the end of the story. The next night, Scheherazade concluded the story in the middle of the night, then immediately began to tell a different story, which she again ended on a cliffhanger. Lather, rinse, repeat, and before you know it Scheherazade had survived 1001 nights. At the end of it all, she told the king that she had no stories left and was ready to die -- but the king had fallen in love with her and kept her as his wife. Mission accomplished.

The stories told over the thousand and one nights include adventures like The Seven Voyages of Sinbad, Aladdin, and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. The story of the story of these stories is inspiring and exciting. In addition, there are other narratives characters in Scheherazade's stories tell (these would be "tertiary"). A story within a story within a story, and I love each level of it. (If you go down another story level, though, that's Limbo, which isn't a good place to be. Especially with your ex-wife.)

Similarly, the plot of Their Eyes Were Watching God is framed as a woman, Janie, telling a story to her friend Phoeby. The story weaves from first person to third person seamlessly; the former allows immersion in the 1900s America setting of the novel, while the latter delivers beautiful, poignant prose. (The question "Did marriage compel love like the sun the day?" resides in a top spot in my personal Best Sentences Ever hall of fame.)

TEWWG is a powerful look into race identity, black American culture, and the coming of age of a young woman. I recommend reading it.

-Me

A Quick Thought Regarding Quidditch

I realize that I'm not the first person to have thought of this, but I feel like it needs saying anyway.
Quidditch has the worst rules I have ever heard of in a sport, and that includes all of these. Let's review them, in case you forgot:
1.) Three chasers try to throw the quaffle through a ring. This earns 10 points. The keeper tries to keep the enemy chasers from doing this.
2.) Two beaters try to injure the enemy team with bludgers. They do this by using bats.
3.) The seeker's goal is to catch the golden snitch, worth 150 points. Once someone catches the snitch, the game is over.
I showed this to my seven year old brother and he saw the gaping hole in this system within sixty seconds. Here's the problem: Catching the snitch is literally all that matters.
Yeah, I know there was that one world cup where the team that caught the snitch lost, but that's because neither team was playing correctly. If we assume that each position on the team is only allowed to touch their respective ball (e.g. only seekers are allowed to catch the snitch), then the best way to play Quidditch is this:
Have everyone on your team fly around your goal so the enemy team can't score. At the same time, have your players constantly look for the snitch. Once someone sees it, immediately inform the seeker where it is and have her beeline straight for it while you bludgeon/distract the hell out of the enemy seeker. Seriously. You should have your eyes locked on that golden ball the instant it is released, and once you find it, you immediately tell your seeker where it is so she can get it. You should be tracking that thing like you are the NSA and it's the American people, because catching it means victory. Guaranteed.

Imagine if in basketball, all the rules were the exact same -- except there's a really difficult jigsaw puzzle on the side you can do, and if you successfully complete it, your team gets 250 points and the game ends. If that were the case, I'm pretty sure there would be a lot more jigsaw puzzle solvers in the NBA than there are now. That's all I'm saying.

-Me

On Paradoxes

One time in middle school, I saw someone trade away their pencil for two sticks of chewing gum. One minute later, I saw that same person complain about how they had no pencil. <Insert trite but appropriate meme here>

This other time, I gave a beggar $5. Later that day, I found $20 on the street.

My point is, life is weird. And nothing better shows the weirdness of life than a paradox (well, two).

I recently stumbled on the Two Envelopes paradox, which basically says the following:
There are two unmarked, identical envelopes, each with some amount of money inside. One envelope has twice the amount of money than the other. You get to choose one of the envelopes and take all the money inside. Once you choose an envelope, before you open it, you get a chance to switch envelopes.

Here's the problem: Mathematically speaking, it is always in your best interest to switch envelopes. The logic is as follows:

Assume the envelope you chose has $100 in it. Then the other envelope either contains $50 or $200. There's a 50% chance of either one. You, being the math genius you are, know that your expected payoff is equal to (Probability1*Payoff1)+(Probability2*Payoff2). In other words, the expected payoff for switching envelopes is .5*50+.5*200 = 25+100 = $125. The envelope you're holding is worth $100 -- so it's in your interest to switch.

But... you can apply the same logic you just used, again. It's always mathematically beneficial to switch envelopes.

It gets weirder when you realize that the paradox is only possible because you have the opportunity to switch envelopes. If you didn't have this opportunity, then the probability of  you getting the envelope with more money in it is a straight up 50%. But when you're allowed to switch, you become trapped in an infinite cycle where it's always better for you to do so.

Another paradox I find to be interesting is the Sorities Paradox. (This one is named after a Greek philosopher, so you know it's a Big Deal.) It says the following:

1.) Fifty million grains of sand is clearly a heap of sand.
2.) If you remove a single grain of sand from this heap, it will still be a heap of sand.
3.) One grain of sand is not a heap of sand.

The trouble is that, given (1) and (2), you can keep removing single grains of sand from a heap of sand, forever and ever, and you'll always have a heap of sand -- so (3) can't possibly be true. But (3) is clearly true. So where does a "heap" of sand end?

Similarly, I can "prove" that there are no big numbers. We all know that 1 is a small number. If you take 1 and add 1 to it, we get 2, which is also clearly a small number. So if you add 1 to a small number, you get a small number. Repeat the process infinitely, and you see that there are no big numbers. But there are. 10^1000 is obviously an enormous number.

Weirder still, I can use this exact same logic to prove that there are no small numbers. If we start with 10^1000 and subtract one, it's the same thing, except reversed. How does this work?

Referring back to the original sand question, people have tried to claim that a "heap" of sand isn't actually a thing. Therefore, Premise 1 is flawed; therefore, everything about the paradox falls apart. In the same way, you could claim that "small" and "big" numbers are not real boundaries. I guess this explanation works, but I'm not satisfied with it. I mean, 1 is obviously a small number, and 10^1000 is obviously a big number... Right? It seems like a bit of a cop-out to me.

Anyway, the point of all this is that sometimes, we have to be happy with weirdness. We have to embrace it. Because if we don't recognize and come to terms with how strange the world is, we might just switch envelopes forever.

-Me

On Blogs

Apparently, my blogging has indirectly caused other people to start blogging. Here is my friend's blog; this is a blog criticizing that blog. This is a blog criticizing the blog criticizing that blog. Here is another blog. Here is another.

I, for one, embrace it. I raise my head proudly, awash in the austere-yet-somehow-beautiful blogsplosion. Let the blogs come.

I am ready.

Me.*

In the cycle of meta-blogs that have cropped up, I am both the beginning and the end. Alpha and Omega. That's right. I see the realization dawning on you. In this small but somehow still relevant blogosphere, I have become Blog God.

The position comes with surprisingly few benefits.

Unrequited, unquestioning obedience/servitude is optional. For sacrifice, I accept cash money, debit, credit, or uncut diamond. No killing fatted blogcalves, though. That's not cool.

Seriously, if I even see one of these things show up in blogheaven, I will not be happy.

-Me

*I think I maybe went a little overboard with this joke.

On Advertising

My pet sheep died last week. The funeral was today.
As I stood there, giving my sad, reminiscing speech, I realized something: Ewes Only Live Once. So treasure your sheep while they live, dear reader. You never know when they will bleat their last.



Advertising is more than scary. It's terrifying. Whenever I want to feel paranoid, powerless, and disgusted, I let my thoughts wander to the advertising industry. Ads are specifically designed to make people unhappy, because happy people don't buy things.

This is a interesting comparison. Source

There's a term advertisers throw around: "clutter". This buzzword refers to the ever expanding and ever more meaningless aggregate of advertising. Advertising is always there, lingering on our peripheral vision. It saturates our cultural consciousness. It takes endless forms: annoying popups, enormous billboards, catchy jingles. The end goal of any advertisement is to "cut through the clutter", to make a commercial that sticks with the consumer. Brand retention is key.

Here's the thing: In its desperate attempts to cut through the clutter, advertising inevitably becomes a part of it. There's a bitter, crushing irony there. Imagine if your friend told you that he didn't care about designer clothes. Fashion shows are a stupid waste of money and time, he says. There are much better ways we can spend our resources. Every time he sees someone on the street with a brand-name article of clothing on, he complains to no end. He has declared a War on Fashion.
Yet despite this, he is always wearing designer clothing, shops at the most expensive department stores, and spends every cent he has keeping up on the latest trends.

Is... is this trendy? It's the first result in Google Images for the term.

You should tell your friend to consider going into marketing, because his thought process is similar to how the advertising industry works. It's almost like a satire of itself. This is an industry so far removed from reality that it says when you open a can of Coca-Cola, you are opening happiness itself. Now that's weird. Weirder still is the fact that advertising is so branded into our cultural consciousness that this message seems perfectly normal to us.

Seriously, what does this even mean?

The weirdness doesn't end there. When you aren't paying to use an online service, it seems like you're not consuming any product. In fact, you are the product. Your very presence is how corporations such as Google or Facebook make money. They are selling you, giving other companies a chance to bombard you with commercials, hoping to extract maximum profit. It's important to recognize that our time and our attentions are worth just as much -- probably more -- than the dollars in our pockets. The next time you see a 'vert for an idiotic online flash game, Facebook has successfully sold you, the consumer.

We as consumers are a product. Something something bitter, crushing irony again.

Isn't it unsettling to realize that, in all likelihood, search engines and social media companies know more about us than our friends? Our family? Ourselves?

-Me