The earth orbiting the Sun is computerish. A city with all its streets and avenues is computerish. A tree with its regular system of branches is computerish. A rock searching out the shortest way to roll downhill is computerish. All of these objects obey the same physical laws that computers do. Computers are so ordinary and commonplace that I can make one out of a piece of typing paper. Seriously! Fold a piece of paper in half and it does something that is quintessentially computerish. Each time you fold the piece of paper, you create exactly twice the number of pages as you had before. That's how digital computers multiply and divide: Always by halving or doubling numbers.

NUMBER OF PAGES in BINARY CODE and in DECIMAL CODE. It's the simplest calculation a computer can make.

I spend a lot of time with these palm sized paper computers, folding and unfolding them and numbering the pages. It's a challenge to write stories on them. But that's what I'll be doing when I'm waiting for a bus, or for someone to get ready. Instead of getting impatient, there I am folding and unfolding this piece of paper, writing sentences that continue from one plane to the next, stretching and spreading my thoughts across this surprisingly complex geometry, breaking the project off at any moment and throwing the pieces of paper away or stuffing them into my pockets or my desk and finding them again some other time and then, tying them back together again in new combinations that I hadn't considered when they were new.

I give each of the surfaces its own number, and each of these surfaces I call a page. When I run out of pages, I fold another piece of paper and add more numbered pages. I will link dozens of pages together this way and I am always amazed by how orderly the numbers remain as they double and divide from one card to another. In spite of the simplicity of the calculation that you make to generate the page numbers, you soon discover that you are creating an artifact that is as intricate and as seemingly random as a house plant... or any of the other computerish objects mentioned above.

Detail of hand-written story card, by the author, circa 1987. Each number represents a "page number." When converted to machine code, the number becomes a bit-map that links its page to every other page in the "book." For example, the "1132" seen above is a page number (The 2" X 4" page itself is a little hard to pick out of the confusion.) In binary code, 1132 becomes "10001101100", which is the series of odd ("1") and even ("0") numbered selections that will take the reader from page 1 to page 1132. Following the algorythm "Either n= n X 2 or n= 1 + (n X 2)," Page 1132 opens to either Page 2264 or Page 2265. The route back to Page One can be traced by dividing the current page number by two and ignoring the carry. The success of the algorythm shows that an interactive adventure tale can continue forever without being drowned in its own complexity. How true-to-life can an interactive computer story be? The author feels that the brain reduces all of life's conflicts to simple yes-no decisions. There are no other kind.

Sometimes people see me writing on these pieces of paper and announce that they will write a story of their own this way. But it's not as easy as it looks. Everytime you fold the paper, there it is: Twice as many spaces to fill. The imagination being taxed twice as hard.

If the person I'm writing about walks through a door on the left, I should also probably put him through the door to the right. He will walk up the stairs, and he will walk up the stairs not. No matter how complicated I make it-- no matter how many pieces of typing paper I use up to describe the endless dilemmas this multidimensional fellow is met with-- the numbers continue to manufacture themselves, as infinite and as orderly as the numbers in a Mandelbrot set.

Many times, while working with my story cards, I am startled by the number of things I didn't know I knew. The system keeps pulling me into realities I had never considered before. Sometimes I wonder if I have experienced that most mysterious of all psychological phenomena: Blind Sight . People with blind sight are clinically blind. But if they are prompted, they will point out objects that are placed before them. They may even laugh and shake their heads, insisting they can't see a thing. And yet they get it right more often than chance allows! What makes this event so interesting is the need for a prompt. Someone outside the observer's head, asking for an opinion!

In the meantime, I've become quite the writer! Lately, I have transferred some of the stories I wrote on paper into the electronic format. You can read them here on the screen instead of on paper, but it isn't as much fun. (Because when you unfold and read a story card out loud, every person within earshot is suddenly paying attention to the way you and your companion are working your way through a long list of dilemma situations. By contrast, the computer is a loner's medium.)

The first story is a comic book that was originally written on a piece of legal size typing paper, folded three times. It has 2 X 2 X 2 X 2 pages, 16 pages in all. It's about Robin Hood. (Also, here is Some Other Stuff I learned about the Robin Hood icon and its role in western civilization.)

The second story is also a comic book, but with twice as many pages, because I folded it in half one extra time, making 32 pages. It is about a character I invented, Griddly.

The third story was scattered all over my desk and falling out of my coat pockets before I committed it to its electronic version. The story was inspired by an old Twilight Zone show, plus a term as City Hall Reporter (I became intrigued by the public servant who accepts bribes with the purest of motives. How can you blame him for placing the happiness of his loving wife and family above yours and mine??)

The fourth story is like the third but adds one more dimension. You can change the names of the characters.

(Added Note: Internet Explorer displays stories #3 and #4 flawlessly unless your security setting is "High.")

Recently I was helping a high school student draw a map. I was handed one end of a 100 foot tape measure and we wandered through town dragging it in and out of the stores. "Why are we doing this?" I finally asked, after being asked the same question by a number of irritated merchants and their customers.

"Because the map making software requires it." came the reply.

I promptly handed back the tape measure and resigned from the project. "WE tell the computer what to do." I exclaimed, "The computer does not tell US!"

That is the challenge before humanity today. I read authors (E.g. Asimov and Crichton) who speculate that it is only a matter of time before computers enslave us, because they are so much smarter and agile than humankind can ever be.

We must not let it happen!

In life, narrative is everything. If you do not have a narrative, you are virtually unconscious. That is why societies require religion and history ("his story") to set them straight about where they came from, why they exist, and where they need to go next. Have no doubt about it, you are surrounded by people who don't want to hear too many questions about their narrative, such things as: why God loves them, why their country is great, why their ancestors are racially and ethnically pure, etc. We live in a world where political candidates rely on their computer to tell them what to say to please the voters at every stop along the campaign trail. They may be running for President, but the computer narrative shapes these incredibly powerful people and our national agenda as much as it shapes some computer game addict who sits in his bedroom learning over and over again that his life is utterly pointless because he can't even get past the title page of his $149.95 "interactive" narrative.

Make it a rule when you are playing a computer game of any kind: I don't care if this computer story is filled with fancy graphics and sound or if it is nothing more than a text adventure. If this game insults me for making a "wrong" decision, if it keeps sending me all the way back to the beginning of the story countless times so that I need to work my way through the exact same string of decision points I followed the first time I read it, then I turn it off and take it back to the vendor. I will tell the vendor that this game only pretends to be "interactive" but is not. I will tell him that life provides me countless opportunities for action every minute of every day and I know that most of all and therefore this game is not life-like enough for me.

The computer was invented as a tool for the mind and that is what it will remain as long as there is breath left in my lungs. I will never allow my brain to become the computer's tool instead. Make it a rule: This computer narrative will open doors to me. This computer narrative will leave me amazed by all the possibilities life has to offer, and how easily I can accomplish them. I will never be feel left out, thanks to this computer story. If it slams a door in my face, I will slam the door in its face.

That was my original plan when I began toying with computer simulated reality (on a 16K Atari 400 computer in the Sherwood Public Library some twenty five years ago), and remains so to this day.

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