Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places: A Geographer’s Guide 9789811686252, 9789811686269, 9811686254

Table of contents :
Preface and Acknowledgments
Contents
List of Figures
List of Tables
1: Setting the Stage
Where Is This Study Headed?
Statement of Purpose
A Note on Surveys
Key-Informant Interviews
Questionnaire-Based Survey
Focus Groups
Virtual Worlds 101
It’s All About the Avatar
Pixelated People: Whence Their Worlds, Labels, and Definitions?
From Cave Dwellers to Dwellers of Caves
An Alphabet Soup of Labels
Do We Know What Virtual Worlds Really Are?
From Boom to Bust? Are Social Virtual Worlds Still a “Thing”?
Chapter Summary and Conclusion
Vignettes
Vignette 1.1 Ana and JT: Getting to Know You
References
2: Where in the World Are These Worlds?
How Can the Geographer’s Craft Be Related to Social Virtual Worlds?
Early Geographical Expressions and Social Virtual Worlds
The Landscapes of Social Virtual Worlds
Social Virtual Worlds and the “Neo” in Neogeography
Toward “Digital Turns” and the Placement of Virtual Worlds
Selected Social Virtual Worlds and Their Maps
The Social Virtual World Lay of the Land
Comprehensive Social Virtual Worlds
Active Worlds
The Sims
There.Com
IMVU
Twinity
Sinespace
Mission-Oriented Social Virtual Worlds
Entropia Universe
Red Light Center
Second Life, Open Sim, and Sansar
The Platforms
Second-Life Maps
Facts and Figures
The Continents Up Close
How Can “Concocted” Spaces Be Understood in Social Virtual Worlds?
Land Cover/Land Use in Concocted Spaces
Is There a Role in Social Virtual Worlds for GISc, Cartography, and “Deep” Mapping?
Chapter Summary and Conclusion
Vignettes
Vignette 2.1 the Mappers and Their Collections
References
3: Who Am I If I’m Not Me?
Motivations for Entering a Virtual World
What Is the Big Draw?
What the Surveys Say
A Little Matter of “Reality”: If They Are Virtual, Can They Be Real?
Multiple Shades of Identity and Presence
Can I Be “Myself” as an Avatar?: The Avatar as an Individual
Self-Exploration
Embodied Experience
Presence, or Are We “There” Yet?
Telepresence and “Being There”
Social Presence and Context
Self, Embodiment, Presence, and Who Shows Up
Who Are These People?
Do These People Travel with Baggage?
Can an Avatar “Grow Up”?
What the Surveys Say
Giving Back: The Avatar’s Feedback Loop
Yikes! My Avatar Changed Me!
What the Surveys Say
What About Culture?
Chapter Summary and Conclusion
Vignettes
Vignette 3.1 Sex, Gender, and the Virtual Girl
Vignette 3.2 the Ultimate Reality: Cemeteries
Vignette 3.3 Walled Off: The Practical Meaning of Immersion
References
4: Is Place Still a Place in Social Virtual Worlds?
What Is Place?
The Geographer’s Engagement, Generally
The Geographer’s Engagement, Specifically
Agnew’s Three Elements of Place
Tuan: Home Sweet Home and the Meaning of Place
Pred and the Contest Between Structure and Agency
Non-representational Theories: All About Embodiment and Everyday Experience
Entrikin: The “Subject” and Place
Bringing Together as Assemblages
Place and Scale
Making Room for “Digital Place?”
Other Views of Place
Formulating a Definition of Place for Social Virtual Worlds
An “Assemblage” of Similarities and Differences
Real Selves in Avatar Form
A Gathering of Heterogeneous Elements
Constantly Becoming or Emerging
A Source of Meaning or Affect
Toward a Definition of Place in Social Virtual Worlds
A Classification of Social Virtual-World Places: Overlapping Circles
Commercial/Government/Public Places
Places for Embodiment Re-Creation
Places for Improvement and Respite
Places for Intellectual and Artistic Engagement
Primarily Residential Places
What the Surveys Say
Comparing Current Sims with Main/Primary Sims
Survey Findings and the Definition of Place in Social Virtual Worlds
Respondent Perceptions and Place Classification: Overlapping Circles?
Summary and Conclusion
Vignettes
Vignette 4.1 Assemblage and Ana’s Thick Places
Vignette 4.2 Home-Grown Universities
Vignette 4.3 Have to Dance (Virtually)!
References
5: Whither Social Virtual Worlds and Their Geographers
Whither Social Virtual Worlds
Social Virtual Worlds and the Geographer’s Craft, and What Is Left to Do
Say Goodnight, Ana
References
Appendices
Appendix A: Survey Technical Details
Approvals and Survey Management
Institutional Approval
Survey Management
Survey Structures
Key-Informant Interviews
“Key-Informant” Survey: Script
Questionnaires
Focus Groups
Focus Group/Questionnaire: Script
Appendix B: Correlation Matrices
Identity Matrix
Identity/Place Matrix
Place Only Matrices
Index

Citation preview

Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places A Geographer’s Guide

Merrill L. Johnson

Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places

Merrill L. Johnson

Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places A Geographer’s Guide

Merrill L. Johnson Anthropology and Geography Colorado State University Fort Collins, CO, USA

ISBN 978-981-16-8625-2    ISBN 978-981-16-8626-9 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-8626-9 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover Photo: The cover photo is courtesy of Lynda Schofield (avatar name: Callipygian Christensen) who is a professional photographer in Second Life. She was successful in posing a group of “people” (avatars) on the steps of one of the buildings on the Anima educational sim operated by Denise Infinity (avatar name). We gratefully acknowledge, also, the help of both Denise Infinity and Delia Lake (avatar names) in assembling avatars for the photo shoot. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. The registered company address is: 152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore

Preface and Acknowledgments

In December of 2006, the bug bit. I was thumbing through my PC World magazine and stumbled on an article about a new 3-dimensional virtual world called Second Life. It had a “geography” with landscapes and people. You engaged that geography by means of an avatar, sort of a “you 2.0” of yourself. I mustered the courage to join Second Life. It was “weird,” but I could not let go of the desire to explore this electronic universe. Thus began a long and fascinating personal journey that led to this book. Along the way, many friends and colleagues joined me in their own explorations, some embracing the technology, others dismissing it, and still others not knowing what to think about it. The University of New Orleans, where I was an administrator at the time, led a statewide SL consortium of universities, initially funded by the Louisiana Board of Regents technology office, to create a virtual-world presence. In-world campuses were built and courses were offered. Faculty members were given virtual offices (often nicer than their actual-world offices), and university libraries and administrative offices created in-world links. Like universities across the globe we were consumed by the wildfire of excitement that defined the early years of social virtual worlds, created by the promise of new and engaging ways to enhance the educational experience. The wildfire eventually burned itself out. People moved on. Virtual campuses were closed. Other social media became destinations of choice. v

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Preface and Acknowledgments

Some of us were disappointed to see such an ephemeral public response to an innovation that we viewed as consequential and even revolutionary for education, and maybe even life itself—certainly not just a fad.! Several of us at U.N.O., including Dr. Richard Speaker (Education), Lindsey Hamlin (online learning), and Dr. Stephen Gasior (Biology), pressed on in our effort to keep some of the virtual-world embers alive. The inspiration that kept me believing in the specialness and the possibilities of social virtual worlds took many forms over the years. I needed to look no further than the elegance of the Spirit Light Dance Company as they fused virtual-world technology and classical choreography into stunning Second Life dance performances. I was reminded of the victory of the spirit over adversity when I saw the Virtual Ability community at work and play, demonstrating how virtual worlds can be used to address actual-world physical challenges. I will never cease to be inspired by the number of conversations that I have had with avatar “people” who were performing identities that were “theirs” privately, but not “theirs,” publicly, as they reached within themselves to express personas hidden by the demands of the physical world. Geographers, meanwhile, were pursuing exciting work elsewhere on digital settings that largely excluded social virtual worlds. I thought that more could be said by geographers about social virtual worlds, and perhaps I was the person to do it; but my administrative obligations prevented me from taking the writing plunge. With my move to Colorado State University, however, the resources and time became available to develop a book. The result, thanks to the unswerving encouragement of Joshua Pitt at Palgrave-Macmillan, was the following geographical “guide” to social virtual worlds and their places. The number of people who provided inspiration and/or guidance for this book is large. I want especially to thank: 1) Joshua Pitt, Sophie Li and the Palgrave-Macmillan team; 2) the anonymous reviewers who shared important insights and provided truly helpful recommendations; and 3) inworld “advisors” and confidants such as Valibrarian Gregg, Gentle Heron, Caryl Meredith, Kate Miranda, and many others [all avatar names]. Nothing would have happened, of course, had it not been for the special friendship and encouragement of colleagues that include: 1) Dr.

  Preface and Acknowledgments 

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Michael DeMers (Professor of Geography, New Mexico State University), who once travelled as a Second Life avatar and with whom I spent multihour lunches at A.A.G. meetings comparing notes and sharing stories; and 2) JTCroxton (avatar name), a great in-world friend whose virtualworld knowledge and unassailable scholarly values provided me with an important sounding board. In addition, it is important to thank the C.S.U. Department of Anthropology and Geography, particularly Drs. Michelle Glantz and Jason Sibold, for encouraging me to chase my virtual-world dream. I am especially grateful for the skillful help of Yan Xue, a cultural anthropology master’s student, who helped me over the summer of 2020, and probably saved me two months of work. I wish also to acknowledge the role of my family, for whom taking chances and embracing challenges were honored traditions. My father, Deral, rose out of Depression-era rural Oklahoma to become a ship’s radio operator during World War II, followed by a postwar stint on a Harley-Davidson as he took a crack at college; he ultimately became a distinguished conductor and professor of choral music. Along the way, he married my mother, Marie, an accomplished pianist/organist from rural Kansas, and they established a lifelong musical partnership. Thanks to their inspiration, the three kids, Gail, Marsha, and me, forged ahead on their own professional paths including, in my case, becoming a geographer and following through on an “offbeat” interest in social virtual worlds. Finally, it is with humility and gratitude that I acknowledge the support of my immediate family, who not only tolerated but lovingly encouraged Dad’s “quirky” interests over the years. With that in mind, I affectionately dedicate this project to my wife of forty years, Lynn Marie Thornburg, and to my daughters, Erin Johnson and Alyssa Johnson Griffin. Of course, any omissions or errors in the book are mine, and mine alone. Fort Collins, CO, USA

Merrill L. Johnson

Contents

1 Setting the Stage  1 Where Is This Study Headed?    4 Statement of Purpose   4 A Note on Surveys    6 Virtual Worlds 101  18 It’s All About the Avatar   18 Pixelated People: Whence Their Worlds, Labels, and Definitions?  20 From Boom to Bust? Are Social Virtual Worlds Still a “Thing”?  32 Chapter Summary and Conclusion   43 Vignettes  44 Vignette 1.1 Ana and JT: Getting to Know You   44 References  46 2 Where in the World Are These Worlds? 55 How Can the Geographer’s Craft Be Related to Social Virtual Worlds?  56 Early Geographical Expressions and Social Virtual Worlds   56 The Landscapes of Social Virtual Worlds   62 Social Virtual Worlds and the “Neo” in Neogeography   64 ix

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Toward “Digital Turns” and the Placement of Virtual Worlds  69 Selected Social Virtual Worlds and Their Maps   75 The Social Virtual World Lay of the Land   75 Comprehensive Social Virtual Worlds   76 Mission-Oriented Social Virtual Worlds   85 Second Life, Open Sim, and Sansar   90 How Can “Concocted” Spaces Be Understood in Social Virtual Worlds?  103 Land Cover/Land Use in Concocted Spaces  103 Is There a Role in Social Virtual Worlds for GISc, Cartography, and “Deep” Mapping?  106 Chapter Summary and Conclusion  109 Vignettes 110 Vignette 2.1 the Mappers and Their Collections  110 References 114 3 Who Am I If I’m Not Me?125 Motivations for Entering a Virtual World  126 What Is the Big Draw?  126 What the Surveys Say  135 A Little Matter of “Reality”: If They Are Virtual, Can They Be Real? 140 Multiple Shades of Identity and Presence  144 Can I Be “Myself ” as an Avatar?: The Avatar as an Individual 144 Presence, or Are We “There” Yet?  157 Self, Embodiment, Presence, and Who Shows Up  166 Can an Avatar “Grow Up”?  169 What the Surveys Say  171 Giving Back: The Avatar’s Feedback Loop  184 Yikes! My Avatar Changed Me!  184 What the Surveys Say  187 What About Culture?  188 Chapter Summary and Conclusion  191

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Vignettes 193 Vignette 3.1 Sex, Gender, and the Virtual Girl  193 Vignette 3.2 the Ultimate Reality: Cemeteries  197 Vignette 3.3 Walled Off: The Practical Meaning of Immersion 199 References 201 4 Is Place Still a Place in Social Virtual Worlds?211 What Is Place?  212 The Geographer’s Engagement, Generally  212 The Geographer’s Engagement, Specifically  215 Formulating a Definition of Place for Social Virtual Worlds  233 An “Assemblage” of Similarities and Differences  234 A Classification of Social Virtual-World Places: Overlapping Circles 242 Commercial/Government/Public Places  242 Places for Embodiment Re-Creation  244 Places for Improvement and Respite  247 Places for Intellectual and Artistic Engagement  248 Primarily Residential Places  250 What the Surveys Say  251 Comparing Current Sims with Main/Primary Sims  254 Survey Findings and the Definition of Place in Social Virtual Worlds  254 Respondent Perceptions and Place Classification: Overlapping Circles?  260 Summary and Conclusion  266 Vignettes 267 Vignette 4.1 Assemblage and Ana’s Thick Places  267 Vignette 4.2 Home-Grown Universities  271 Vignette 4.3 Have to Dance (Virtually)!  274 References 277

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5 Whither Social Virtual Worlds and Their Geographers283 Whither Social Virtual Worlds  285 Social Virtual Worlds and the Geographer’s Craft, and What Is Left to Do  288 Say Goodnight, Ana  291 References 292 Appendices295 Index311

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 1.2 Fig. 1.3 Fig. 1.4 Fig. 1.5 Fig. 2.1

Fig. 2.2

Fig. 2.3

Ana Prieto (left) and J. T. Croxton (right) are immersed avatars 2 The author’s avatars 7 Conference room used for focus-group meetings. (Source: Author)14 Technology trajectory over time. (Sources: Adapted from Hayes 2009 and Gartner Newsroom 2010) 40 JT and Ana having coffee on JT’s deck 44 SW City in Active Worlds. (Adapted from www.activeworlds. com SW City, circa 2007. Courtesy of Rick Noll, accessed 6-28-2021. This is SW City, the largest city (at the time) in the Active Worlds universe) 79 Virtual University of Edinburgh and its Openvue “minicontinent” in Sinespace. (Adapted from Austin Tate’s Blog. Source: Tate, 2017. Image used with permission. For more on the virtual-world work of Austin Tate, see vue.ed.ac.uk and/or https://blog.inf.ed.ac.uk/atate/2017/09/18/ sinespace-­vue/) 86 Major landmasses in Second Life. (Adapted from Linden Lab world map available in the typical avatar screen presentation. The names were added by the author. Some isolated peripheral sims were omitted in the interest of map clarity. The small dots are individual sims or small clusters. North is up) 99

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List of Figures

Fig. 2.4

The continent of Sansara in Second Life. (Sansara is the central landmass in Second Life. The grid system comprising “sims” is clearly visible in this image. Modified by author to show basic map information) 100 The continent of Corsica in Second Life101 Typical “beachscape” in Second Life105 Carl Metropolitan, mapping pioneer, standing in his museum. (Source: Author, used with permission of Carl Metropolitan)111 Globe room of the New Kadath Lighthouse. (Source: Author, used with permission of Juliana Lethdetter-Decuir (pictured))112 The David Rumsey facility in Second Life. (Users may tour the map displays, most of which are of actual-world historical settings, and purchase copies. Source: Author, with permission by David Rumsey. See https://www.davidrumsey. com/about/copyright-­and-­permissions for the official statement)113 New ways of presenting old globes 113 A matter of avatar “reality”. (So, who is “real” in this photo? Ever thought that it might be the person in the middle? Picture of “author(s)” by “author(s).”) 142 Profile statement in Second Life for Meryl McBride The avatar is asked to supply information about its virtual- and actual-world biographies. In this case, the avatar is reasonably open (though coy) about what it is willing to share with the outside world. 164 Sex and the virtual girl. (Who knows who these people are? What better reason to make use of the bed? Source: Author. Yes, he knows these people.) 193 Welcome to the Second Afterlife Cemetery. (Lena Anthony (hovering, to the left) and Meryl McBride at the Second Afterlife Cemetery welcome sign. Source: Picture by author.) 198 Memorials at the Second Afterlife Cemetery. (Source: Picture by Author) 199 The immersed Ana “walled” off from the actual world. (Source: Picture by author) 200 A figurative business landscape in Second Life as of 2009. (Source: With permission, Motrix Bulloch) 243

Fig. 2.5 Fig. 2.6 Fig. 2.7 Fig. 2.8 Fig. 2.9

Fig. 2.10 Fig. 3.1 Fig. 3.2

Fig. 3.3 Fig. 3.4 Fig. 3.5 Fig. 3.6 Fig. 4.1

  List of Figures 

Fig. 4.2 Fig. 4.3 Fig. 4.4 Fig. 4.5

Fig. A.1 Fig. A.2

Fig. A.3 Fig. A.4

Fig. A.5 Fig. A.6 Fig. A.7

Fig. A.8

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Streetscapes of 1920s Berlin. (This region is an example of the role-play sim, many of which have a fantasy or historical focus. Source: Pictures by author) 245 The Star Wars Library. (The person in the picture is a librarian and archivist. Multiple futuristic role-play sims exist in Second Life)246 Source of contentment: mountain-scape in Second Life There are many places simply to relax and enjoy scenery in Second Life.247 The ancient Titanoboa This “snake” from 61 million years ago is giving a period crocodile a very bad day as the Titanoboa coils itself around its prey. Shown in the picture are Linda Kelley and Greg Bollella in the Science Circle’s immersive exhibit, a diorama that a person can walk through. Picture by author. 250 Ana in her front yard. (These plants took but seconds to grow. Source: Picture by author) 268 Ana on her back deck with friends. (The sun is shining. Thank you whoever set the sun to shine, although the house has a roof in case somebody sets it to rain. Source: Picture by author)269 Ana at home by the fire. (A “thick” place at its best! Source: Picture by author) 270 Rockcliffe University Consortium. (Phelan Corrimal standing in front of the Rockcliffe library and administration buildings (https://urockcliffe.com/about/). Source: Picture by author) 271 Caledon Oxbridge University. (The Victorian look of Caledon Oxbridge University in Second Life (see http://www. caledonoxbridge.org/). Source: Picture by author) 272 Author’s office in Second Life. Making use of collaborative educational space. Looks better than the actual-­world equivalent!273 Lobby of the Spirit Light Dance Company’s performance venue. (Caryl Meredith is the Artistic Director of one of the most innovative and prestigious dance organizations in Second Life)274 Dancing to seasonal favorites 275

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Fig. A.9

List of Figures

Fantasy is elevated to new levels through costuming and set design275 Fig. A.10 Caryl Meredith with MJ in an SLDC reception area, a picture of dancers in the background 276 Fig. 5.1 JT and Ana enjoying the fire at the end of the day 292 Fig. A.1 Front materials for questionnaire 303

List of Tables

Table 1.1 Demographic characteristics of questionnaire respondents 12 Table 3.1 The most important reason for entering and remaining in Second Life136 Table 3.2 The relationship between the avatar and the user 172 Table 4.1 Relationship between the avatar and its places 252 Table 4.2 Levels of agreement by place category for selected questionnaire statements 264 Table A.1 Approval statement by Colorado State University Institutional Review Board 296

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1 Setting the Stage

Ana Prieto1 is an avatar (Fig. 1.1). She was “born” in the virtual world called Second Life™ on January 2, 2007.2 She was birthed as a fully grown woman with dark hair, slightly Latin features, and the body that would be the envy of anybody attempting to keep things together in her mid-­40s. Of course, bodily perfection is possible when shape sliders can be used to set every part of her look to an ideal, if aspirational, place. Furthermore, she does not get sick or feel pain, nothing breaks if she falls, and she does not have to eat or sleep. Oh yes, and going to the bathroom is mainly a social moment, since she has no bodily functions to which she must respond. And best of all, Ana does not age! After all these years she is still, well … mid-40ish. Wardrobe decisions can be vexing. She, like most residents of Second Life, has a nearly infinite supply of fashion options. That is one of the biggest industries in the virtual world, making and selling clothes. Will it be a summer dress or winter boots? Does she need to dress for partying or 1  Name was changed to protect the anonymity of a “real-life” avatar who is fully immersed. The descriptions of her life and circumstances are accurate. 2  Second Life and SL are trademarks of Linden Research, Inc. This study, including its Virtual World Identity and Place Survey, is not affiliated with, or sponsored by, Linden Research.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 M. L. Johnson, Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-8626-9_1

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M. L. Johnson

Fig. 1.1  Ana Prieto (left) and J. T. Croxton (right) are immersed avatars

maybe going out to eat? (Oh yes, fact check: in virtual worlds you don’t actually need to “eat” to “eat out.”) She can change her hair, or eye color, or makeup, with the stroke of a key. Professionally, Ana keeps busy. She is a journalist, columnist, and researcher. Currently, she is the communications coordinator for a major organization in Second Life. She has earlier experience writing columns for Second-Life newspapers and magazines, even being photographed for some of their spreads. Her office is located in the downtown area of an older Second-Life residential community, on the edge of a plaza surrounded by quaint European-looking shops and a chapel on one end. Nothing much happens beyond the occasional party or festival. The locals know each other and say hello in passing. The trees show fall colors and then drop their leaves before the snow gathers in the winter. Spring brings new growth. Her home is a small Mediterranean dwelling just up the hill from downtown. It sports a nice patio that overlooks a waterway below, and friends often get together on her patio.

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They do not divulge their actual-world identities to other people in the virtual world. They have never met, talked to, or corresponded with, the other person’s user in the actual world. Yet they are great friends. They will appear throughout this study.3 Ana enjoys her many friends. They may be sitting next to her in Second Life, but physically be a continent away. She has a special friend, J. T. Croxton, who often shares morning coffee with her. He is a youngster by comparison, having been born in May 2014, but he looks at least as old as Ana. His Second-Life work is that of an environmentalist and writer. Ana and JT have never seen each other in the physical world, or talked to each other, or written to each other, or anything. But the friendship is real. Most of the people who walk the streets of Second Life do not know the identities of the typists associated with Ana or JT. They truly occupy an electronic second space, with all its idiosyncrasies and strange expressions, and that is the way they want it. They are who they appear to be in the virtual world, and it feels amazingly “real” (see Vignette 1.1, “Getting to Know You”). Welcome to virtual worlds! Oh yes, besides Ana and JT, we will want periodically to imagine a fire-breathing dragon avatar, just to keep things interesting.

3  All pictures were taken by the author. In those case in which pictures were taken in Second Life by the author of subjects and/or places not directly related to the author’s avatars, the Linden Lab Terms of Service policy was adhered to, to wit (additional provisions apply): As long as you comply with the terms and conditions below, both Linden Lab and the Residents of Second Life (collectively, “we”) grant you the following copyright licenses:

1. A License To Capture. You may take snapshots and capture machinima of the 3D content we created that is displayed in-world, and 2. A License To Use. You may use the resulting snapshot or machinima within or outside of Second Life in any current or future media. “Use” means “use, reproduce, distribute, modify, prepare derivative works of, display, and perform.” For other definitions, see Definitions. Both the License To Capture and the License To Use (collectively, the “Licenses”) are non-­ exclusive and royalty-free. In addition, the License To Use is worldwide, sublicenseable, and ­transferable.” Source: http://wiki.secondlife.com/wiki/Linden_Lab_Official:Snapshot_and_ machinima_policy#:~:text=You%20may%20take%20snapshots%20and,any%20current%20 or%20future%20media. Accessed 1/23/21.

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Where Is This Study Headed? Statement of Purpose The purpose of this study is to look at who Ana and JT (and the millions like them) really are, how they interact with their virtual spaces and places, and above all how they and their social virtual worlds (SVWs) relate to the geographer’s craft. The emphasis is on conceptual breadth over depth. The study covers a broad sweep of issues, to the point that it may read like a literature review (for which the author asks the reader’s indulgence in advance). That said, sources cited are more representative than comprehensive, and not every possible journal article or website is acknowledged (though the bibliography contains hundreds of entries). In the final analysis, the goal of this effort is to provide a foundational understanding of the social virtual world—by means of a “guide,” if you will—that is scholarly, yet accessible to geographers and non-geographers alike, and provides a context for future geographical work. Included is the issue of whether the study of social virtual worlds is actually worth the effort to geographers. We focus on the social virtual world called Second Life, although multiple social virtual worlds are referenced. While there is no single question that directs this study, the content will be guided by a series of issues, as follows: 1. What is a social virtual world? What is its history? How is it different from other virtual worlds, including games? 2. Where in the world are we? Where does a social virtual world fit into the profile of interests that defines geography? How can existing geographical scholarship be adapted to understand better the social virtual world and, in turn, how can such a world be used to inform better the geographer’s craft? What do some of these social virtual worlds and their maps look like? How do we experience and understand “concocted” spaces and their maps? 3. Who am I if I am not me? Who are the “people,” the avatars, that populate the social virtual world? What are the “motivations” for coming into a social virtual world and staying in the world? How

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“real” is the avatar and the avatar’s setting? Can I be “myself ” as an avatar? What is meant by “presence”? Can an avatar “grow up”? Can an avatar have an effect on its user? Do avatar cultures exist? 4. Does the social virtual world have “places,” as commonly understood in geographical circles? How do geographers view place? How can geographical points of view be used to inform how place is defined in a social virtual world? Can we classify places in a social virtual world like Second Life? Throughout, anecdotal “vignettes” will be included to illustrate, and to add “life” to, the analyses presented and the stories told. Ana and JT will help with these vignettes. Here is what this study is and is not. First, it is not an analysis of the highly sophisticated technologies that are used to build and  maintain these worlds. The emphasis is on the issues related to the people, spaces, and places that these technologies support, with technology considered only to the extent that it helps to supply context. Second, while this study is geographical in focus, it relies heavily on work outside of geography to explore geographical relevance. This need to reach beyond the discipline is especially apparent when understanding the avatar as the “person” that lies at the core of the virtual-world experience. We need also to stipulate how we will address our virtual and physical settings. As a practical matter, we will adhere to the distinction proposed by Boellstorff in 2008 (p. 21) that we are working in a universe of “virtual” and “actual” worlds, acknowledging that neither term is fully sufficient. The shorthand used in this study is “in-world” or “electronic world” for the land of avatars, and “actual” or “physical world” for the domain of the person facing the computer screen. We will not use “RL” or “real life”—a common expression in Second Life—except in connection with the surveys described below. Along the same lines, people who inhabit virtual worlds often make reference to their “typists,” “drivers,” “operators,” “controllers,” to refer to their actual selves; and perhaps “resident,” “character,” or even “avi” (as in avatar) to refer to their online presence. For purposes of this study, we will use mainly the terms “avatar” or “resident” (see Boellstorff, 2008, p. 22) to refer to the online presence; we will never use “player” or “gamer.” The person at the keyboard who is in

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relationship with the avatar will normally be called the “user” (for lack of a better term).

A Note on Surveys While most of this study relies on existing scholarly work, a brief supplementary mixed-methods analysis was designed and used to capture on-­ the-­ground information about Second-Life residents and their places. Mixed-methods approaches have a long history in geography. As Elwood noted (2010, p. 2) “in tandem with these persistent boundary making and gate keeping efforts in the discipline, geographers have been conducting mixed methods research for decades.” What does a mixed-method analysis involve, and how does it relate to virtual worlds? Elwood (2010, pp. 3–5) summarized the perspectives that scholars have taken on the purpose and meaning of mixed-methods research. Some perspectives focus on “validation,” or a confirmatory role, in assessing information—do the different techniques lead to similar outcomes? The assumption is that the “objects of inquiry are wholly knowable” (Elwood, p.  4). The “complementarity” perspective suggests that different approaches to information may lead to different outcomes that more fully define the whole—that is, a statistical analysis may not reveal information that a subsequent set of interviews will reveal. The assumption is that knowledge is situated and that the different ways of knowing are inherently partial (Elwood, p. 4). Using some of the same assumptions, the “integration” perspective leads to the creation of new knowledge not so much from the complementarity of disparate types of data and analysis, but as the product of a “unique hybrid epistemology, rather than a strategic collision between separate epistemologies” (Elwood, 2010, p. 5). Data collection and analysis in virtual worlds can be difficult, and multiple looks at the data may be helpful. Consequently, this study emphasizes the role of “complementarity” as the most effective way of acquiring and understanding knowledge, recognizing that the information produced by any given approach may not be sufficient in understanding identity and place in all their ramifications.

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The mixed-methods approach used here is “mixed” through use of (1) key-informant interviews, (2) a questionnaire with closed and structured responses, and (3) a series of focus groups. The questionnaire initially was administered to members of the focus groups and later distributed more broadly as a stand-alone instrument. The mechanics of the surveys are described in Appendix A. What follows is a summary of, and justifications for, the approaches used. The in-world portion of the survey was managed by two of the author’s avatars: Meryl McBride, with the occasional help of Merrill Johin, also known as MJ (Fig. 1.2). In addition, as described in Appendix B, a correlation matrix was computed for selected questionnaire entries to assist in identifying agreement patterns.

Fig. 1.2  The author’s avatars

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Figure 1.2 Two of the author’s avatars managed the interview portions of the surveys, with MJ on the right (SL: Merrill Johin) and Meryl McBride on the left—both are embodiments of the same user. They were completely transparent in who they are in the actual world. Their openness stands in clear contrast to Ana and JT

Key-Informant Interviews Key-informant interviews involve the use of “experts” to provide detailed perceptions and understandings of the context in which a particular study is conducted. In the words of Marshall (1996, p. 92): Key informants, as a result of their personal skills, or position within a society, are able to provide more information and a deeper insight into what is going on around them … They are interested in the behaviour of those around them, they observe the development of their culture and often speculate, or make inferences about, both.

According to Stokes and Bergin (2006), referring to the use of “depth interviews” in marketing, the advantages of this sort of data-gathering process include (among other advantages): greater control over respondent selection; the exclusive opportunity given to the respondent to analyze a particular situation; the “unusualness of being listened to, which, together with the anonymity afforded, gives the respondent a feeling of empowerment” (Stokes & Bergin, 2006, p. 6); easier expressions of non-­ conformity; and opportunity to establish a trusting rapport with the respondent (Stokes & Bergin, 2006, p. 6). Disadvantages relate to the extent to which the comments of the informant may or may not be valid or reliable due to some sort of bias unintentionally introduced by the researcher or perhaps the informant (see Marshall, 1996; Homburg et  al., 2012). An additional disadvantage is that the key-informant interview will not benefit from the information that emerges by means of group interaction (Stokes & Bergin, 2006, p. 6). Nonetheless, key-informant surveys are helpful tools for social scientists, business researchers, health experts, and of course geographers

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(see, citing a small sample, Marshall, 1996; Christopoulos, 2009; Homburg et al., 2012; Dowling et al., 2016; Twongyirwe et al., 2018). For purposes of this study, a number of longstanding and prominent participants in Second Life were asked to sit in-world with one of the author’s two avatars and address broad themes about virtual worlds, their nature, the people that inhabit them, and the places that these people occupy. Interviewees were encouraged to share perceptions. The goal was to tap into the expertise of these individuals regarding the larger context in which this guide to virtual worlds could be placed. The discussion format was semi-structured with the respondent encouraged to speak freely. We asked for a 30-minute discussion period, but stayed as long as the respondent had things to say. Discussion topics included: (1) basic demographic information; (2) motivations for entering, and continuing with, Second Life; (3) avatar identity, and the relationship between the avatar and the user; and (4) the meaning of place in social virtual worlds. Other, more specialized, interviews with key informants (indicated by an “*”) did not necessarily follow these discussion topics. The key-informant (and related) interviews included (mainly  avatar names): • Valibrarian Gregg—Director, The Community Virtual Library. • Frau Jo Yardley—Creator, Owner, Manager of 1920s Berlin sims. • Kaiila Mahoney—Elder, Physicians Caste, world of Gor. Present also was Xavier Phyre. • Cat Mistwalker—Owner of Naked sims. • Caryl Meredith—Founder, Artistic Director, Spirit Light Dance Company. • Gentle Heron—Head, Virtual Ability in Second Life and President of Virtual Ability, Inc., in the actual world. • Rosie Gray—Chancellor (at time of interview), Confederation of Democratic Simulators (CDS). • Sudane Erato—Estate Owner, CDS and New England estates. • ZenMondo Wormser—Master Zen, Star Wars sims. • *Juliana Lethdetter-Decuir—Founder and Curator, New Kadath Lighthouse Art Gallery sim.

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• [Confidentiality Request]—Leading educational thinker and resident of major role-play community. • Aldo Stern—Museum professional and leading figure in a period role-play sim. • Corcosman Voom—Longstanding member and leader, Chilbo residential and educational area. • *Map Darwin (David Rumsey)—Sponsor of the Rumsey historical map collection in-world. In the actual world, a retired business person, and a 40-year collector and conserver of historical maps, most of which he has donated to Stanford University, to the map collection in his name. • *Carl Metropolitan—Affiliated with Caledon Oxbridge University (founder and former Chancellor) and an early map-maker in Second Life. • *Lena Anthony—Founder of the After (Second) Life Cemetery. • *Phelan Corrimal—Founder of Rockcliffe University Consortium. • *Denise Infinity—Educational innovator. She is working to establish a community college presence in Second Life and is owner of an in-world college campus.

Questionnaire-Based Survey The key-informant interviews provided starting points for additional collection of information using questionnaire-based surveys and focus groups. The questionnaires were embedded within the focus-group experiences, although there were several opportunities to distribute questionnaires to respondents who did not wish to (or could not) participate in focus groups. The questionnaires were constructed using SurveyMonkey (see the details in Appendix A), and respondents were asked to follow a link to the SurveyMonkey site. The design and structure of the questionnaire are informed by the comments of McGuirk and O’Neill (2016), taking fully into account the need “to be clear on the intended purpose of each question, who will answer it, and how you intend to analyze responses” (2016, p. 252). The purpose of each question in this study was to enlarge the

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understanding—perhaps confirm or refute, but always to build on—the more conceptual material presented regarding motivations for entering the social virtual world, identity, and place. Citing DeVaus (2014), McGuirk and O’Neill described four categories of questions, specifically, questions regarding: (1) attributes—designed to identify respondent characteristics; (2) behavior—what is it that people do, and it is not necessarily professional; (3) attitudes—what respondents think is desirable or undesirable; and (4) beliefs—what respondents think is true or false, or preferred. The emphasis of this questionnaire was on attitudes and beliefs. As was the case with the key-informant interviews, the questionnaire addressed issues related to: (1) demographic status; (2) motivations for joining, and remaining in, Second Life; (3) relationship between the main avatar and the user; (4) the meaning of virtual places, including a “home” place (a copy of the questionnaire is contained in Appendix A). Questionnaires used to support qualitative research, as is the case here, do not necessarily lend themselves to probability sampling. In the words of McGuirk and O’Neill (2016, p.  262), questionnaires are aimed at “establishing trends, patterns, or themes in experiences, behaviours, and understandings. Important to the analysis, then, is uncovering the influence of a specific context [italics in original], rather than making generalizable claims about whole populations.” In virtual worlds, sampling frames are difficult to design and use, given the itinerant and unpredictable nature of the avatar population. This survey relied more heavily on what McGuirk and O’Neill refer to as “purposive” sampling (p. 262), wherein invitations to potential respondents are extended based on a common characteristic. They added that (p. 262) “There are no specific rules for this type of sampling. Rather, the determinants of the appropriate sample and sample size are related to the scope, nature, and intent of the research and to the expectations of your research communities.” The survey remains systematic, if not random. The context or “common characteristic” in this study refers to the different types of places described in Chap. 4. The demographic characteristics of the questionnaire respondents are summarized in Table 1.1. It was difficult to make comparisons with other datasets, which tended to be irregular in collection and different in mission (often including gaming components). A limited basis for

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Table 1.1  Demographic characteristics of questionnaire respondents

Characteristics of respondents Avatar user’s age:  Up to 30 years of age  31–40 years old  41–50 years old  Over 50 years old Gender of user:  Female  Male  Non-binary/other Gender of user’s avatar:  Female  Male Actual-world primary residence:  Europe  Mexico  South America  United States  Canada Racial/ethnic presentation of avatar is different from user:  Yes  No The length of time this avatar has been in second life:  Less than 12 months  1–3 years  4–6 years  More than 6 years The number of “alts” (other avatars) that the user has:  None  1–5 “alts”  More than 5 “alts”

Percentage (n = 73, unless otherwise noted) 5.5 11.0 13.7 69.9 58.9 37.0 4.1 65.8 34.3 19.2 2.7 1.4 69.9 6.9

9.6 90.4

5.5 4.1 4.1 86.3

19.2 67.1 13.7

Source: Data generated by author, fall 2020. See Appendix A for details

comparison was provided by a 2015 study (Pearce et al.) in which 858 non-game-virtual-world users were surveyed. The best comparisons exist for age, gender, and number of alts.

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The baby-boomer makeup of the present study is noteworthy with two-thirds of respondents indicating an age greater than 50; the second-­ largest cohort was over the age of 40, producing a finding of over eight-­ out-­of-ten participants not “young” chronologically. This finding does not stand alone. The Pearce study (p. 13) showed the largest cohort in the 29–47 cohort (45.2 percent), followed by the 48–66 cohort (36.2 percent). Young adults in the present study accounted for only 5.5 percent of respondents and in the Pearce study only 17.5 percent.4 While more work needs to be done on age groups and social virtual worlds, they clearly are not made up exclusively of the young, screen-addicted, digital natives that the general public may associate with video activity, particularly games. The population was not only old but female. The consistency with the Pearce study was striking. In the present study, 58.9 percent indicated as female in the actual world; in the Pearce study, 59.8 percent (p. 15). In the present study, 37.0 percent were male; in the Pearce study, 37.9 percent were male. In the present study, avatar gender (as opposed to actual-­ world sex) was indicated as 65.8 percent female and 34.3 percent male. The survey population was not only old and female, but had multiple “alts,” or other avatars attached to the same account. Two-thirds of the respondents had one to five alts and an additional 14 percent maintained more than five alts in Second Life. Overall, about 80 percent of the respondents had multiple alts. While this figure may seem high, the presence of multiple alts is not uncommon. The Pearce study found that 46 percent of their respondents had multiple alts in a single world, and a quarter of the respondents had multiple alts in multiple virtual worlds (Pearce et al., 2015, p. 36). Different alts are used for different purposes, including role play, managing the user’s in-world affairs, among other activities. Multiple avatars, however, can be vexing for studies of avatar identity. This vexation led to the stipulation in the present study that the respondent focus on the “current” avatar, which was associated with a particular type of 4  The Pearce study enlisted respondents from an initial 18 social virtual worlds, with an additional 25 platforms added by respondents. They solicited participation from a variety of online forums and through Facebook advertisements. The data were collected from April to September 2012 (see Pearce 2015, p. 8). It is worth conjecturing how the findings in a more recent study might be different, reflecting how respondents matured chronologically.

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place. Interestingly, the proportion of respondents claiming only a single avatar was similar in both studies: 19.2 percent in the present study and 17.0 percent in the Pearce survey (p. 36).

Focus Groups The questionnaire-based surveys described above served as gateways for follow-up focus group discussions (see Fig.  1.3). This type of mixed-­ methods approach is not uncommon. In the words of McGuirk and O’Neill (2016, p. 251), questionnaires “can be combined effectively with complementary, more intensive forms of qualitative research, such as interviews and focus groups, to provide more in-depth perspectives on social process and context.” A focus group is led by a moderator and is used to bring together people to discuss an issue of (usually) common interest (see Bosco & Herman, 2010). More to the point, and to paraphrase Kitzinger’s (1994, p.  103) medical study, focus groups are group discussions designed to explore a specific set of issues. The group is “focused” in the sense that it

Fig. 1.3  Conference room used for focus-group meetings. (Source: Author)

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involves some kind of collective activity—for example, debating a set of questions. Focus groups can be distinguished from group interviews in that the former emphasize group interaction as a source of information. Bosco and Herman (2010, p.  191) wrote that “we understand focus groups as organized events in which researchers select and assemble groups of individuals to discuss and comment on from personal experience, topics of relevance to different research projects.” They are “conversations among participants,” which distinguishes them from group interviews in which emphasis is placed on comments by individuals to the moderator—that is, the moderator does not assume an “investigative” role but a peripheral function that observes the interrelational dynamics of the participants (Parker & Tritter, 2006, p. 26). Why include groups when also using key-informant interviews? Is there additional information to be had with a focus group? The answer is “yes.” Examining these questions from a marketing standpoint, Stokes and Bergin (2006, p.  19) concluded that a strength of focus groups is their ability to provide a rich body of contextual information. Somewhat earlier, Kitzinger (1994, p. 116) noted that this context effect: highlights the respondents’ attitudes, priorities, language and framework of understanding … encourages a great variety of communications from participants—tapping into a wide range and form of understanding … helps to identify group norms … provides insight into the operation of group/ social processes in the articulation of knowledge (e.g. through the examination of what information is censured or muted within the group) … can encourage open conversation about embarrassing subjects and facilitate the expression of ideas and experiences that might be left underdeveloped in an interview.

The principal disadvantage of focus groups is that group discussions may lead to some group members feeling pressured to embrace what they perceive as a consensus view, even though secretly they may harbor different opinions. In addition, some members of the focus group may remain silent while other, less-inhibited members, dominate the conversation. And then there is always the moderator: As Parker and Tritter remarked (2006, p.  22), “we need to remain aware of how respondents see the

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researcher/facilitator at different stages of the research process and how these perceptions impact upon what participants are willing to divulge.” Finally, lurking beneath the surface of the focus groups may be perceived power relations, even in the most homogeneous of groups, that will influence the discussion (see Bosco & Herman, 2010, p. 195). The mechanics of focus-group design and implementation have been widely discussed in a variety of disciplines. Bosco and Herman (2010, p. 195) summarized the prevailing “fundamentals” of focus-group organization, including small size (6–12 members); location of the focus group which is convenient for participants, but not ruling out formal settings specifically designed with the focus group in mind; more than one meeting of a focus group to verify information obtained; use of “snowballing” (participant contact networks) to recruit new focus groups or recruitment in “natural” environments—where people important to the focus group would normally be found; and the creation of “homogeneous” groups of focus-group members (although there is some debate on this point). The relevance of focus groups to virtual worlds has received scholarly notice. In a 2016 article, Gadalla et al., writing in a marketing context, concluded that there did not appear to be “any evident differences in data quality between the results of avatar and face-to-face focus groups” (p.  108). The advantages of so-called avatar-based focus groups (as adapted and abbreviated from Gadalla et al., 2016, p. 107) included: • Convenience for the researcher and participant—the member may participate from venue of preference (e.g., home or office) using ­his/ her time zone; global recruitment is facilitated; transcription is more efficient. • A three-dimensional setting with avatars, making the experience more enjoyable and interesting to participants who can present in any way that they wish. The sense of anonymity among avatars may encourage members to express themselves more openly and honestly. The setting may be less stressful than normal for the moderator, who can develop an easier rapport with the participants.

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Of course, there are downsides to a virtual-world setting: a global reach means that cultural and linguistic differences must be accommodated; non-verbal cues with avatars are nearly impossible to obtain (other than through user-generated emotes); there is a learning curve for participants—few people can simply “jump into” Second Life effortlessly for the first time; and of course, this is computer technology, which means that there is the occasional crash or other technical interruption. One of the most successful users of virtual-world focus groups, primarily in Second Life, was A. Krueger (aka Gentle Heron in Second Life). As a founder and prominent member of Virtual Ability, Inc., Krueger and her team fully embraced the virtual focus-group method, particularly as it helped to understand how people with actual-world physical challenges could identify new abilities in virtual worlds. They leveraged the capabilities of a virtual world to support the focus group. The Second Life “notecard,” for example, was used to describe projects, to explain instructions, and to secure informed consent. Notecards provided instant, editable, and global communications. Krueger et  al. created specific Second-Life rooms in which focus-group participants could meet, rooms on platforms in the “sky” that are completely private—that is, electronic “sound proofing.” They concluded that in their line of work “the advantages of using virtual world focus groups outweighed the disadvantages” (Krueger et al., 2014, p. 332; see also focus-group use in Mitra & Golz, 2016). The types of questions that were posed to respondents in the study at hand were similar in structure to those asked of the key informants, only phrased in such a way as to promote exchanges among group members. The questions addressed the same issues as described for the other two parts of this mixed-methods project. Focus groups were conducted at a specific location in Second Life. Participants were in avatar form and only avatar names were used. The focus groups included members of the following sims/organizations and ranged in size from two to seven attendees: • • • •

Naked (residential) Community of Democratic Simulators (residential) 1920s’ Berlin (role play) Gor (role play)

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• Spirit Light Dance Company (arts/education) • Virtual Ability (personal improvement) In summary, this analysis featured a mixed-methods approach to understanding perceptions about a range of issues, including identity and place in virtual worlds, focusing on Second Life. These methods have a long history of use in virtual-world research, including work done by (citing only a sample) Barker, 2016, Behm-Morawitz, 2013, Evans, 2011, Gilbert et  al., 2013, Girvan and Savage, 2013, McLeod et  al., 2014, Welles et al., 2014, Yee, 2006. Relevant findings are included in sections embedded in each chapter.

Virtual Worlds 101 If we were to enroll in a beginning course in virtual worlds, what would it look like? We would want to find out about the avatar, the core of the virtual-world experience. Maybe we would take an interest in how and why virtual worlds appeared on the scene. We certainly would want to learn about the virtual-world lexicon. Welcome to Virtual Worlds 101.5

It’s All About the Avatar Virtual worlds are populated by “avatars,” or the on-screen electronic manifestations of the typist or driver. Who this manifestation is and its significance are explored later, but at this point it is safe to say that social virtual worlds such as Second Life would have no life at all without avatar lives. The term “avatar” has roots that go back to ancient Hindu thought and reflect a religious provenance that may be misunderstood, or even lost, among current users of the term. In the words of Khatib (2007, pp. 69–70): 5  For an excellent anthology on all aspects of virtual worlds, perhaps a “textbook” for Virtual Worlds 101, see Grimshaw, 2014.

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An avatar, apart from (but related to) its traditional mystical connotations, is usually defined as an incarnation or a manifestation of an object of worship or admiration. The term is most traditionally used as a designation in Hindu mysticism, most notably in the Indian religion of Vaishnism, in which the supreme being, Bhagavan, (or, in more common parlance, the god Vishnu) incarnates any number of times, following the Indian doctrine of cycles. In more colloquial use, the term might also designate an enlightened individual, someone who has reached a state of awareness without limitations … as well as an individual who acts as a human intermediary between God and mortals.

Khatib (2007, p. 70) added, however, that as a practical matter in an age of digital expression, “an avatar is a (sometimes graphical, sometimes textual) icon or representation of a user within a shared virtual reality. In other words, an avatar is a digital you.” Even so, the avatar, she maintained, should still be understood in a more mystical sense, that is as a “truly virtual or other-worldly identity that hovers just outside the physical body,” or as a “transcendent alterity which is both created and controlled by the self ” (Khatib, 2007, p. 70). Along the same lines, but without some of the mystical or metaphysical connotations, Peachey and Childs (2011, p. 1) wrote that the “avatar” is an electronic representation of a virtual-world participant which the participant may use to interact with other users and with the virtual environment around them. They traced the root of “avatar” to the Sanskrit avatarah [italics theirs], a compound of ava (“down”), and tarati, (“he crosses”). It means therefore “the crossing down” … Taking on the form of an avatar within a virtual world is thus a literacy of crossing down from the real into the digital. (2011, p. 1)

The incarnation of the physical deity in the physical world is replaced by an incarnation of a human user within the digital world. Meadows (2008) wrote extensively, and in a somewhat lighthearted fashion, about the definition and meaning of avatars. His analysis featured references to the Super Mario Brothers franchise (p.  14) and to avatars referencing truly existential issues like whether avatars are people (p. 108). Fundamentally, he believed that the avatar is “a machine that is

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attached to the psychology of its user. From within the machine the driver can peek out, squinting through alien eyes, and find a new world. And, oddly, the driver can also look into himself, as if gazing into his navel, and find a new landscape inside as well” (2008, p. 8). Boellstorff (2008, p.  128) wrote that the modern term “avatar” was “probably first used in the virtual worlds Habitat and Ultima IV in the mid-1980s, as well as in Neal Stephenson’s 1992 science fiction novel Snow Crash.” He added that the avatar of virtual-world fame actually suggests less a visitation from elsewhere than a “decarnation” or “invirtualization” (p. 128) as the user moves from the actual world to the virtual world.

 ixelated People: Whence Their Worlds, Labels, P and Definitions? From Cave Dwellers to Dwellers of Caves “Virtual worlds” have been around for as long as humans have been able to think and imagine. The anthropologist Tom Boellstorff (2008, p. 33) reminded his readers that ancient cave dwellers and their wall art were symbols that opened up imaginary worlds. Plays, novels, operas, dreams, and rituals invite people to do the same. Bittarello (2008, p. 2; see also Adams, 2014) wrote about the significance of virtual worlds to ancient and medieval settings, noting that “There is a long tradition of describing and representing virtual worlds in ancient literatures—particularly in myths (sacred stories) and religious texts.” She cited the journeys of Gilgamesh, the travels in the Odyssey, and the biblical Garden of Eden as examples. She continued with more contemporary expressions of virtual worlds in fiction, cinema, mythic spaces, and cyberspace (Bittarello, 2008, pp. 3–13). Damer (2008, p. 2; see also Damer & Hinrichs, 2014) observed that “If we define the virtual world as ‘a place described by words or projected through pictures which create a space in the imagination, real enough that you can feel you are inside of it’ then the painted caves of our ancestors, shadow puppetry, the seventeenth-century Lanterna Magina, a good book, theatre play, or move are all technologies

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to create virtual worlds.” Nowadays these worlds are more closely associated with electronic “caves” than those in mountainsides. According to Messinger et al. (2008, pp. 2–5), the roots of the electronic virtual world can be found in video gaming and social networking sites. Arcade games, launched by Atari’s Pong in 1972, was an early successful coin-operated video game. Other familiar names fall into this era, such as Tank, Indy 500, Space Invaders, and the blockbuster Pac-Man. Both thematic and fantasy games were included. Most of the games were single player versus machine. Console systems were next to appear, according to Messinger, featuring Nintendo in 1986, along with Mario, Donkey Kong, Street Fighter II, and others. The third stage in the progression was the LAN (or Local Area Network) game, which introduced a degree of social interaction—at least for those tied to the local network. As Messinger et al. wrote (2008, p. 4), most of the games were “shooter” games that were intended to do little more than wreak havoc. Stage four led up to the turn of the century and to greater use of the Internet. Gaming became more inclusive geographically and more complex in terms of the social interaction, featuring the familiar Xbox and Playstation platforms. The next stage led to the beginning of the “god games” (Messinger et al., 2008, p. 4), which provided players with freedom to explore the world in realistic settings; Grand Theft Auto was an exemplar. Stage six gave gamers more control over the creation of content, as in the case of The Sims, although players were still playing with online components rather than existing in a virtual world. Worlds with designer-­ provided objectives followed, according to Messinger et al., where players could gain skills and work toward objectives as avatars in beautifully designed worlds; World of Warcraft and Lord of the Rings Online help to define this stage. The final two stages are all-too-familiar, including the role of social networking sites and, finally, open virtual worlds themselves. In other words, virtual worlds constitute the latest and most sophisticated outcome of a multi-decade process. Dionisio et al. (2013) divided the evolution of virtual worlds into five phases. The initial phase, beginning in the late 1970s, focused on text-­ based MUDs (multi-user domains) and MUSHs (multi-user shared habitats) that “involved the creation of fantastic realities that resembled Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings or the role-playing dice game Dungeons and

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Dragons” (Dionisio et al., 2013, p. 34:2). Phase two, which appeared in the late 1980s and early 1990s, and partly inspired by the literature of William Gibson, led to improved use of graphical interfaces and inclusion of avatars; Habitat for the Commodore 64 in 1986 exemplified this phase. The third phase of development, beginning in the mid-1990s, included advances in “user-created content, 3D graphics, open-ended socialization, and integrated audio” (Dionisio et  al., 2013, p.  34:3). Worlds, Inc. and Active Worlds exemplified this phase, which was inspired by the work of Stephenson. The fifth phase, which appeared in the early 2000s, witnessed the appearance of Second Life and enhanced in-world content-creation, but was marked especially by a growing popularization of these electronic spaces among corporations and academic institutions. The final phase began in 2007 and was defined by increased open-source decentralization of virtual worlds (e.g., OpenSims) and interoperable clients or viewers (e.g., Firestorm, which emerged from Phoenix) (Dionisio et al., 2013, p. 34). Downey (2014, pp. 57–59) described the history of virtual worlds in a similar fashion, only broken down into three “generations.” He described the first generation (1978–1984) as primarily text based, accommodating  fewer than 250 users, and focusing on fantasy-based games. This was the era of the “MUDs,” and by 1992 there were more than 170 MUDs on the Internet, using 19 different world-building languages (Downey, citing Rheingold 1993). During this time, Avatar was introduced as the “first fully functional graphical world” (Downey, 2014, p. 58). The second generation lasted from 1985 to 1996. This was a time of growing use of graphical worlds, larger-scale systems, use of avatars on a more widespread basis, and an increasing interest in social interaction. In addition, it was now possible to develop user-created and controlled objects. Platforms such as Habitat and LambdaMOO defined this period. The third generation (1997–present) brought greater persistence, massive systems, visually complex three-dimensional worlds, increased user creativity, and a growing variety of virtual worlds, including those designed for children. Ultima Online, Everquest, World of Warcraft, and Second Life (among many other platforms) came to exemplify the technological possibilities of this generation.

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Sivan (2008, p. 2) observed that the modern virtual world represents the progeny of two parents. The “father” was the development of virtual reality (VR), in which computer graphics were used to create a realistic world. Borrowing from Burdea and Coiffet (2003), he argued that the essence of the virtual world is the ability to “feel” the reality (immersion), to change it (interaction), and to engage the imagination. The “mother” took the form of gaming worlds and, apparently, their social-interaction, business-development, and user-creation possibilities. While Sivan provided a useful point of departure, some elaboration may be helpful. Virtual “worlds” and virtual “reality,” while emerging from similar roots, are not interchangeable terms. Virtual reality has come to suggest a certain interface with electronic space, perhaps through a headset or goggles. It is by means of this interface that the user can engage the communities and places within a virtual world. Virtual reality pays little attention to what goes on inside the virtual world by the people and community involved (see Schroeder 2008, p. 2; Boellstorff, 2008, p.  20), although some virtual-reality platforms seem to mimic virtual worlds (see Lang, 2020). Virtual reality may present the context in a more visually appealing and “realistic” way, but it may not shape the context. In brief, the evolution of virtual worlds did not follow a coherent single trajectory, but presented a muddle of often disjointed explorations into an exciting technology future. Downey (2014, p. 54) remarked that many of the innovations that we associate with virtual worlds today “began as grassroots efforts by gaming and computer enthusiasts who were long on passion but short on documentation.” He added that, as of 2014, much of the literature was “largely fragmented and widely dispersed across a variety of disciplines” (Downey, 2014, p. 55). While this dispersal of interests, he remarked, “can be good in that it demonstrates an examination of the field from different perspectives, it also produces a significant challenge to people entering the field as they typically gain only a partial understanding of the domain and its history” (Downey, 2014, p. 55).

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An Alphabet Soup of Labels The alphabet soup of names, labels, and abbreviations used to refer to these platforms is daunting and often without conceptual clarity (Girvan, 2018, p.  1089). According to Downey (2014, p.  62), they comprise MMOs, or “massively multiplayers online,” which include a variety of worlds; MMOGs, or “massively multiplayers online game,” a subset of MMOs; MMORPGs, or “massively multiplayers online role-playing game,” which is a subset of MMOGs; and MUVEs, “multi-user virtual environments,” a term initially suggested to refer to social-oriented versus game-oriented spaces. Earlier, Boellstorff (2008, p. 23) made reference to MMOWs, “massively multiple online worlds”; MMORTs, “massively multiple online real-time strategy”; MUSHs, “multi-user shared habitat”; MUGs, “multi-user game”; MOOs, “MUD object oriented”; and MUCKs, “multi-user chat kingdom.” Many of these terms owe their origin to an earlier term, MUD, which referred to a “multi-user domain,” or more accurately, “multi-user dungeon,” which in the words of Turkle (1995, p. 11), claimed a “genealogy from Dungeons and Dragons, the fantasy role-playing game that swept high schools and colleges in the late 1970s and early 1980s” (see also Turkle, 1994, pp. 158–167). Adding to the complexity, Castronova (2007, p. 5) recommended using the word “synthetic” rather than “virtual” in referring to these electronic spaces. Somewhat later, in an article that focused on definitional confusion, Girvan (2018, p.  1089) added the terms “immersive virtual world” (IVW), “serious virtual world,” and “social virtual world.” Sivan (2008, p. 2) wrote about the young field of “real virtual worlds.” Clearly, these are not your father’s virtual worlds, whatever they end up being called. One additional term requires introduction and explanation: “Metaverse.” As Boellstorff noted (2008, p. 38), it was Neal Stephenson’s 1993 novel, Snow Crash¸ which gave rise to Metaverse. Like other members of the “cyberpunk” literary tradition of the time, Stephenson “told a powerfully prescient story of virtual worlds, addressing issues like the workings of “avatars” and questions of inequality” (Boellstorff, 2008, p. 38). Dionisio et al. (2013, pp. 34:6–34:7) addressed extensively the specific meaning and relevance of this term to virtual worlds.

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The word Metaverse is a portmanteau of the prefix “meta” (meaning “beyond”) and the suffix “verse” (shorthand for “universe”). Thus it literally means a universe beyond the physical world. More specifically this “universe beyond” refers to a computer-generated world, distinguishing it from metaphysical or spiritual conceptions of domains beyond the physical realm. In addition, the Metaverse refers to a fully immersive three-­ dimensional digital environment in contrast to the more inclusive concept of cyberspace that reflects the totality of shared online space across all dimensions of representation.

Building on the work of Frey et al. (2008) and Burns (2010), the authors added to the lexicon terms such as “Meta Worlds,” separate virtual worlds analogous to individual planets with no interworld transit, and “Meta Galaxies” or “Hypergrid” assemblages that suggest multiple connected virtual worlds (Dionisio et al., 2013, p. 34:8). While early proponents of Metaverse may have suggested a multimodal, interconnected electronic universe of some sort, more typically the term was used by devotees as a summary expression for all things related to avatar-populated parallel universes. Because of its inconsistent use, the term is largely avoided in this study.6

Do We Know What Virtual Worlds Really Are? The relatively untidy evolution of virtual worlds and their associated jumble of abbreviations make defining a virtual world an equally messy process. Girvan (2018, p. 1089) observed that “The development of virtual worlds, from text to graphical environments as well as providing a widening range of user experiences, has resulted in a fragmented understanding in the literature of what a virtual world is and is not.” Undaunted, we proceed to provide a definition for this study. Much of the work on definitions emerged early in the current evolution of electronic virtual worlds. Schroeder (2008, p.  2) wrote that “Virtual Worlds are persistent virtual environments in which people 6  Not to add to the confusion, it should be noted that as this manuscript was in final editing Facebook announced its rebranding as Meta, as in Metaverse.

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experience others as being there with them—and where they can interact with them.” He placed emphasis on “being there,” the sensory experience that comes from a virtual world—experiencing other people in the electronic space as being there with you (Schroeder, 2008, p. 2). At about the same time, Sivan (2008, pp. 1–32) proposed the “Real Virtual World” (containing an interesting juxtaposition of “real” and “virtual”) as an aggregate of four factors: (1) a dynamic electronic space containing a physical presence in which objects are present and avatars can move freely; (2) a community of residents; (3) capability of people to develop their own things, their own creation, within the electronic space; and (4) commerce, or the ability to participate in an economic system. Bell (2008, p.3) defined a virtual world as a synchronous, persistent network of people, represented by avatars, facilitated by networked computers (a definition, according to Girvan, 2018, p. 1090, that has been cited over 500 times). Gottschalk (2010, p. 503) adapted Book’s 2004 definition to describe a “social virtual world” as a shared space that allows many users to participate at once; has a graphical user interface that depicts space visually; interaction takes place in real time; users may alter, develop, build, or submit customized content; the electronic space is persistent, or “on,” regardless whether the user is on; and the world allows and encourages the formation of in-world social groups (Messinger et al., 2008). Other authors attempted to bring the various strands of thought into a more coherent whole, although the conceptualizations remained complex. Pearce et al. (2015) provided a compendium of prior virtual-world definitions. Characteristics similar to those described above were included, although the wording often was different. Their compendium included the following characteristics of a virtual world (which, in their case, included gaming platforms) (Pearce et  al., 2015, p.  5): (1) spatial—a spatial expression, either graphical or textual; (2) contiguous—spatial continuity that is probably mappable; (3) explorable—residents may go wherever they wish; (4) persistent—“on” all of the time; (5) populous— inhabited by a large number of concurrent residents; (6) embodied persistent identities—resident representations, or avatars; (7) inhabitable—an avatar may enter the world and live inside it, actively contributing to its culture; (8) consequential participation—presence is a part of the world and of other residents’ experiences of it; and (9) worldness—sense of

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coherence, completeness, and consistency within the world’s environment, aesthetics, and rules. They compiled a second compendium derived from other academic and industrial experts that included (1) shared space—multiple users may participate at once; (2) graphical user interface—space is depicted visually; (3) immediacy—real-time interaction; (4) interactivity—users have some degree of control over content; (5) persistence—always “on”; (6) socialization/community—in-world social groups, gathering, neighborhoods are encouraged. These studies may have helped to organize thinking regarding the definition of a virtual world, but they tended not to simplify the concept. Yet by 2018, notwithstanding all this effort, the definition of virtual world remained a work in progress for at least some scholars. Nevelsteen’s first sentence in 2018 (p. 1) was that “There is no generally accepted definition for a virtual world.” Nevelsteen proposed a technology-based definition, focusing on an “ontology of virtual-world acronyms.” Instead of employing the usual literature review for arriving at a definition, Nevelsteen assembled 26 sample technologies, noting that “Sample technologies are … analyzed for properties related to a virtual world; properties that are determinants of a virtual world together form the new definition” (Nevelsteen, 2018, p.  2). The resulting definition, while somewhat less accessible than others because of nomenclature used in the model, clearly reflected the technology focus. A virtual world is: A simulated environment where: MANY [all caps from author] agents can virtually interact with each other, act and react to things, phenomena and the environment; agents can be ZERO or MANY human(s), each represented by MANY entities called a “virtual self ” (an avatar), or MANY software agents; all action/reaction/interaction must happen in a real-time shared spatiotemporal non-pausable virtual environment; the environment may consist of many data spaces, but their collection of data spaces should constitute a shared data space, ONE persistent shard. (Nevelsteen, 2018, p. 18)

Girvan (2018, p.  1087) was sympathetic with Nevelsteen’s assertion about definitions when she wrote that “over the past ten years, there has been little development of the term. Instead there is confusion in the

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literature with the introduction of new terms which are at times used to classify the type of virtual world and at others are used synonymously with the term.” Her update was comprehensive and provided new life to the search for a workable definition of virtual worlds, especially for users interested in educational applications. Girvan highlighted the importance, first, of “experience” in understanding virtual worlds (much as Schroeder [2008] had done earlier). After reflecting on the meaning of “worlds” and “virtuality,” she observed that “what makes it [virtual world] distinct from the material or physical world are the types of experience available for the user afforded by the combination of different technical features, most notably the avatar” (Girvan, 2018, p. 1093). The “experience” component focused on “presence,” the sense of being “in” the virtual setting, and how this presence allows the user to become both a consumer and a producer (a “prosumer”) of in-world content—to shape and be shaped by the virtual environment (Girvan, 2018, pp. 1093–1094). Her second component, technology, included those broad features that are required to achieve such experiences. Technology focuses on the avatar, which lies at the center of all experiences. “Any world is experienced and mediated through our bodies. Within a virtual world this is achieved through the use of an avatar—the inhabitant of the virtual world—which provides the user with an active agent with which to encounter the world” (Girvan, 2018, 1094). In addition, she listed as important the capability of multiple concurrent users, communication tools, content-creation tools, persistence, and graphical representation of the shared space. In relationship to other technologies, she argued that a virtual world is a subset of the term world and a subset of virtual environment; a virtual environment is a component of a virtual world; a virtual world is a subset of multi-user virtual environment (MUVE); a MUVE is a component of a virtual world; a virtual world is not a MMORPG—that is, a “game”; a MMORPG, however, can exist within a virtual world; and a virtual world can be accessed through virtual-reality systems (Girvan, 2018). Her analysis led to the following summative statement of virtual worlds as: Shared, simulated spaces which are inhabited and shaped by their inhabitants who are represented as avatars. These avatars mediate our experience of this space as we move, interact with objects and interact with others,

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with whom we construct a shared understanding of the world at that time. (Girvan, 2018, p. 1099)

One particularly contentious and vexing issue is whether a virtual world is the same as a “game”? Early on, Money, CNN, and Fortune Magazine’s David Kirkpatrick (2007) proclaimed, as if to clear the air, “Second Life: It’s Not a Game.” And he was right, sort of. Games suggest contests, winners and losers, driving up scores, and so on, as if a sport were involved (though electronic gaming is becoming a competitive sport of its own); virtual worlds focus more on presence, community, and social interaction in three-dimensional electronic spaces. In virtual worlds, users create their own environments, according to Girvan (2018, p. 1097), and are not constrained by “game grammar” (borrowing from Gee, 2003). Along the same lines, in the words of Gottschalk (2010, p. 503), “Interactivity and community distinguish social virtual worlds from game-oriented ones” (see also Boellstorff, 2008, pp. 21–23). Ward (2015, pp.  119–122) set  distinguised  “gaming virtual worlds” (GVW) from “social virtual worlds” (SVWs), by noting that: Unlike most video games, a distinguishing feature of SVWs is that users’ actions are open-ended such that their form is not constrained by singular goals to be accomplished. The intent of most users is not to kill more of a designated enemy, destroy more objects, pilot a vehicle faster than their competitors, or accumulate more points or power by way of experience and performance in defined competitive activities. (Ward, p. 120)

He added that SVWs are broadly accessible with content driven by the concerns of individual users, these worlds are by nature interactive, and they have been shown to mimic the real world on some level (Ward, 2015, pp. 120–121; see also Gordon, 2008). Ward (2015, p. 120) was clear that the distinction between game and non-game settings was imperfect and suggested that the meaning of virtual world should be understood in a more inclusive context. It is noteworthy that Ward used the expression “virtual world” in both the gaming and social settings. Schroeder (2008, p. 2) seemed to agree, maintaining that games in fact were subsets of virtual worlds. Girvan (2018, p. 1098)

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was quick to point out that a virtual world clearly is not a game but supported Schroeder in the acknowledgment that a virtual world may include game-like (MMORPG) activity. Along the same lines, Pearce et al. (2015, p.  6) contended that the expression virtual world had room for both games and non-games. They argued in favor of a virtual-world continuum, with “Fixed-Synthetic” activities, or games reflecting a goal orientation, on one end of the spectrum; and “Co-Created” activities, or “metaverses” containing open-ended activities, on the other end. Second Life, for example, would be on the Co-Created end and World of Warcraft would occupy the other Fixed-Synthetic end. Overlapping virtual activities (e.g., EVE Online) would occupy the middle spaces. Nazir and Lui (2016, p. 3) went so far as to discard the continuum for quadrants containing “Static Game Worlds,” “Dynamic Game Worlds,” “Static Social Worlds,” and “Dynamic Social Worlds.” For purposes of this study, the simplest way to approach a virtual world is to see it as a broadly inclusive container. The container may include contents that have the shoot-‘em-up structure and excitement of what is commonly perceived to be a game, or in the alternative, places that are little more than the hang-out zones of a social virtual world. The container may hold goal-oriented activities that fit the popular conception of games, but the purpose of the container is not to serve as a game. Boellstorff (2008, p. 22) reminded his readers not to confuse the container with the contents, or the medium with the activities. As one of Boellstorff’s (2008, p. 22) correspondents prompted him, “SL is no more a game than a box of crayons.” Unfortunately, the nuance of this understanding is increasingly ignored as users of electronic environments attach the word “game” to almost any electronic presence, regardless the content and purpose—a shorthand that, while misleading, is becoming mainstream. A person needs to look no further than the following headline for confirmation: “The Best Games Like Second Life—Top Alternatives in 2018?” (Briscoe, 2017). The academic efforts to draw a distinction increasingly have become “academic.” For purposes of this study, we will keep the definition of “virtual world” relatively narrow. We agree with the notion that a virtual world is first and foremost a “container” holding a certain array of activities, in

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this study emphasizing personal and social experiences as they relate to place. In other words, we want to focus more on the “day-in-the-life” experiences and activities of virtual-world users in their geographic settings, rather than the pursuit of a pre-designed goal-oriented narrative. These experiences will say much about life in virtual worlds, their associated places, and the degree to which they are different from physical-­ world counterparts. We are more interested in understanding what is involved in building a 3-D online life than winning a 3-D online game. Above all, as geographers, we emphasize the importance of space and place in our work, albeit electronic space and place that may often not have the same expression as in the physical world. Finally, to overcome as much ambiguity as possible, we will follow in Gottschalk’s (2010) steps and use the term “social” virtual world. To these ends, we make the following assumptions and establish the related criteria for defining a virtual world. For purposes of this study, when we use the term “social virtual world,” we will be referring to an electronic environment that: • Runs using a platform(s) that is massively networked, persistently online, and synchronous—that is, the electronic space usually is Internet based, does not shut down once the user logs off, and may involve a large number of users interacting in real time. • Portrays landscapes and places in three dimensions and in relatable ways. Normally, the content looks at least moderately realistic relative to the physical world, recognizing the fantasy-like qualities inherent in such settings. • Has as its primary purpose providing electronic spaces and places in which users can manifest themselves as avatars with agency and who can move freely among objects that they create and maintain; in which avatars can experience other avatars as being present, either nearby or through in-world communication; and in which social groups and communities may be developed among avatars. The primary purpose

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is not a pre-determined outcome, score, or game objective, although games may be present incidentally within a community of people.7

F rom Boom to Bust? Are Social Virtual Worlds Still a “Thing”? By 2008, virtual worlds such as Second Life were all the rage, with press headlines breathlessly proclaiming the life-altering potential of these new avatar-occupied spaces. PC World (Wallace, 2006, p. 133) enthused, “Think the Net has changed your life? Wait until it becomes an immersive 3D environment.” They went on to predict that (Wallace, 2006, p.  134) “3D virtual worlds like Second Life are becoming a very real component of people’s lives, and over the next ten years they will begin to shape the way we work, play, and define our identities.” These worlds constitute nothing less than a new means of human expression, citing founder Philip Rosedale of Linden Lab (Wallace, 2006, p.  134). Newsweek (Bennett & Beith, 2007) claimed that “alternate universes” such as Second Life “may be the Internet’s next big thing.” In a later piece (Begley, 2008) wrote about “Our Imaginary, Hotter Selves,” all related to the perceived benefit from climbing into an avatar’s existence. The Wall Street Journal (Duranske, 2008) opined that “The 3D Internet Will 7  While we want to be as clear as possible on the definition of social virtual world as used in this study, we do not want to diminish the growing complexity of the virtual-world experience. The hugely popular Minecraft franchise, for example, features many of the characteristics of a social virtual world—for example, a geography and an avatar community—but its game-like orientation is made apparent by its cartoonish blocky avatars and its goal-oriented activities. This complexity becomes especially apparent when considering such popular mobile apps as Pokémon Go. The avatar in Pokémon Go is invited to search his/her real-world map surroundings for virtual characters that can be captured and used in the game. The app is an example of augmented reality in which game figures are superimposed on the actual-world geography seen in the phone screen. Players, by means of relatively realistic avatars, are encouraged to explore their real-­ world surroundings as part of the game (but watch their step while playing the game lest they stumble over a real-world street curb while staring at the cellphone). There are player teams and plenty of activities involved in the process. Pokémon Go is in fact a “game” and in that sense does not fit the social virtual-world definition provided in this study, and neither does it have a geography of its own with which the avatar can interact. The game, however, provides a titillating glimpse into what at least one version of the social-virtual-world of the future may look like as it becomes more accessible on mobile devices and more integrative of the physical and virtual settings. In the meantime, geographers can have fun catching pokémons in their own neighborhoods.

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Change How We Live” and that virtual worlds have “quietly slipped into the mainstream.” (Rawlinson, 2007) cited research in 2007 that “by 2016, half of us will have interactive avatars.” Gartner, Inc. (2007) was even more specific: “By the end of 2011, 80 percent of active Internet users (and Fortune 500 enterprises) will have a ‘second life,’ but not necessarily in Second Life.” Even the author of this study joined in the excitement (Foster, 2007). Furthermore, there was money to be made. The May 1, 2006, cover of Business Week featured a picture of Anshe Chung, a virtual-world entrepreneur who probably earned more than a million actual-world dollars from electronic real estate in Second Life. The user behind Chung was a language teacher living near Frankfurt, Germany, who started buying virtual land in Second Life to test whether the virtual economy was real. It was, and her enterprises ultimately employed 60 people (Bennett & Beith, 2007). Other entrepreneurs earned healthy returns from similar efforts, though not always in real estate. By December 2008, Gridsurvey reported over 200 in-world businesses showing profits of U.S.$5000 or more (Shepherd, 2019). Gartner, Inc. (2007), while recommending caution in proceeding, advised readers that “the majority of active Internet users and major enterprises will find value in participating in this area in the coming years.” As if in response to this advice, a variety of companies entered Second Life. The Wall Street Journal reported that: Dozens of major brands and organizations, including MTV, Playboy, CBS, Cisco, Toyota, L’Oréal and the American Cancer Society have significant virtual-world presences. IBM has made a particularly strong commitment to virtual worlds, and regularly holds meetings on a sprawling, privately firewalled Second Life campus. (Duranske, 2008)

Other corporations included Northrop Grumman Corporation, which built Space Park in-world, along with Cigna Corporation, Intel, and Wells Fargo & Company (Morrison, 2009 [WSJ]). One of Northrup’s software engineers was adamant that virtual reality was not a fly-by-night technology or a passing fad (Morrison, 2009). Evans (2007) asked whether Second Life was about to become a “silicon Silicon Valley”? CNN establish a bureau in Second Life as did Reuters (which was subsequently

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closed) (see Shields, 2007 and Glaser, 2009). Other corporations made attempts to establish their own virtual-world platforms, as, for example, Sony’s “Home” and Google’s “Lively” (Duranske, 2008). A Chinese entrepreneur created “HiPiHi,” a Chinese complement to Second Life (Au, 2007). Education was enthusiastic about the promise of virtual worlds (no doubt partly because educational institutions were entitled to a 50 percent reduction in the cost of virtual land in Second Life). Educause Review dedicated a complete issue to virtual worlds in education (Educause 2008), including a comment by A. J. Kelton (2008, p. 2): “Whether it is Second Life or another virtual world, this foundational movement is not going away.” According to Sim Teach, 98 universities, colleges, and schools from across the globe had a Second-Life presence by early 2007 (Simteachcom 2007). At about the same time, the New Media Consortium (NMC), a major player in virtual-world education, counted 175 higher education members (nmc.org). The NMC and Educause Learning Initiative, in their 2007 report, rated virtual worlds as having a two- to three-year time adoption: In the last year, interest in virtual worlds has grown considerably, fueled in no small part by the tremendous press coverage of examples like Second Life. Campuses and businesses have established locations in these world, much as they were creating websites a dozen years ago. In the same way that the number and sophistication of websites grew very quickly as more people began to browse, virtual locations will become more common and more mature as the trend continues. Virtual worlds offer flexible spaces for learning and exploration—educational use of these spaces is already underway and growing. (p. 18)

Johnson (2009) estimated 250 colleges and universities just in Second Life as of 2009. The Louisiana Board of Regents sponsored a multi-­ university Second-Life consortium at about the same time (see Johnson et al., 2012). Vassar College not only maintained a campus presence but hosted an exquisite replica of the Sistine Chapel. Other prominent universities and colleges included San Diego State University, Ohio University, Penn State, Stanford, and Texas State University—even

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Harvard and MIT maintained a presence. International universities included, as examples, Nanyang Polytechnic in Singapore, University of Southern Denmark, and the University of Sydney (Simteach; and for adoption types, see Jennings & Collins, 2008). And it was not always enough to have a single sim or region. The University of Texas System purchased 49 regions for its campuses in 2009 (Aujla, 2009). Cory Ondrejka, the co-founder of Second Life, remarked that the academy had “been blazing the trail of adoption of virtual worlds far more than gamers or industry” (Quoted in Young, 2008). Bowers et al. (2009) determined that instructors found “using Second Life in their curricula to be both satisfying and as having a positive impact on student learning.”. In addition, virtual worlds offered fertile ground for academic research (Mennecke et al., 2008). There is little doubt that educators assumed that virtual worlds were here to stay. In a British higher education survey, most respondents remarked that “virtual worlds were more likely to be a ‘mainstream’ feature of UK education, rather than a ‘niche’ or ‘novelty” (Virtual World Watch, 2008, p. 1), although others added that adoption might be slow—“It has taken around 15 years from the birth of the web for web-based e-learning to become thoroughly institutionalized (with ongoing pockets of resistance throughout academia). The 3D internet could easily take as long” (David Livingstone in Virtual World Watch, 2008, p. 2). Even geographers entered the fray (DeMers, 2011). In sum, the early years of virtual worlds were active in terms of education-related activity (see, for additional examples, Livingstone & Kemp, 2006; Salmon, 2009; Dass, 2011; Wang & Burton, 2013). Multiple governmental agencies, and even religious outlets, joined the land rush. For example, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration signed on, signaling that perhaps NASA will “connect the first wave of Mars pioneers with their families, friends and colleagues back on Earth, in a 3-D virtual world cut from the mold of Second Life or World of Warcraft” (Holden, 2008 [NASA]). Religious groups that have found virtual homes in Second Life, including the Latter Day Saints (Scott, 2011, pp. 85–104) and a mission from the Jesuits. “Catholic missionaries have always trekked to dangerous parts of the Earth to spread the word of God—now they are being encouraged to go into the virtual realm of Second Life” (Pomeroy, 2007). A group called the Avatar

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Orchestra Metaverse offered performances by means of Second Life. They included musicians from Switzerland, Italy, Germany, Sweden, the United States, and Canada, and performed twice in 2007 (Eriksson, 2007). In 2007, Sweden opened an embassy in Second Life, which was created to “promote the Nordic state’s image and culture” (Sweden, 2007). The embassy was not designed to offer real or virtual consular services, but to provide information about actual-world counterparts. The same excitement about three-dimensional worlds led to bold, if not grandiose, predictions about what lay ahead. Of particular interest was how a Second-Life concept, or something like it, would eventually take over the Internet, making it into one or more “metaverses.” (Metaverse was a favorite catch-all term at the time—see the comments about “metaverse,” above.) Bob Moore, a sociologist, predicted that “Three-dimensional virtual worlds will, in the near future, be pervasive interfaces for the internet” (cited in Hof, 2007) with multiple entry and exit points. Wade Roush wrote in MIT Technology Review that people will ultimately use “metaverse browsers” that connect many different worlds that are owned, controlled, and operated by different organizations through a “Grand Cyber Station” that links all destinations. We will see an “interverse” connecting many local “intraverses,” often blending Google Earth types of information with the built environments of the virtual worlds (Roush, 2007). The connections of this three-dimensional world (or worlds) with daily life would be striking. Popular Science predicted in 2006 (Newitz) that the next version of Second Life: will be seamlessly integrated with the Web, making it easier for real-world businesses to sell items through SL. For example, a retailer like L.L. Bean could have a “door” to an SL store on its Web site, inviting people to jump from 2-D browsing into a 3-D saunter around, where an avatar with your exact measurements could try on clothes for you. Or a consumer-­electronics company could offer in-person technical support from an avatar who had a precise 3-D replica of, say, that new digital camera you couldn’t figure out, and could show you which button you needed to push. As the wall between the Web and Second Life grows thinner, having an SL account might become as common as having an e-mail address.

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Writing at about the same time and along similar lines, Business Week (2007) commented that while researchers at the time had different visions of what a three-dimensional Internet would look like, most agreed that: it would not eliminate the Web as we know it. Rather, it will be possible to move back and forth between Web sites and virtual worlds, just as we now switch between reading a news article and watching a video clip on YouTube. For searching or reading text, today’s sites work fine and continue to do so. But a 3DInternet could make possible a virtual version of activities you might do in real life with like-minded people. You could buy tickets to a baseball game on a standard Web site, for instance, but then go to a stadium in a separate virtual world to meet up with your friends and watch the game.

The article continued with a discussion of the cost savings that companies would achieve by using virtual worlds for conferences and meetings. For some observers, the appearance of three-dimensional worlds heralded truly fundamental changes for society and perhaps even existential changes for humanity. Mitch Kapor, an early and leading figure in Second Life (and the inventor of the Lotus spreadsheet), remarked in an interview with The Economist (2006) that: Second Life is comparable to both the PC and the internet itself, which started as something “quirky” for geeks, and then entered and transformed mainstream society. “Spending part of your day in a virtual world will become commonplace” and “profoundly normal,” says Mr. Kapor. Ultimately, he thinks, Second Life will “displace both desktop computing” and other two-dimensional “user interfaces”. As “a hothouse of innovation and experiment,” he says, Second Life may even “accelerate the social evolution of humanity.”

And speaking of the “social evolution of humanity,” the very nature of truth and the individual were at stake, according to Barry Chudakov’s remarks about “mirror worlds,” submitted as part of a Pew Research forum (Anderson & Rainie, 2008) on the look of the Internet in 2020:

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Mirror worlds are multi-dimensional experiences with profound implications for education, medicine, and social interaction. “Real life” as we know it is over. Soon when anyone mentions reality, the first question we will as is, “Which reality are you referring to?” We will choose our realities, and in each reality there will be truths germane to that reality, and so we will choose our truth as well.

In a somewhat more subdued assessment of the future, William Bainbridge (Science 2007) discussed the changes in the “habits of mind” that may result from work in virtual worlds, as users constantly are experimenting with unfamiliar alternatives, rationally calculating probable outcomes, and developing complex theoretical structures to understand better their environments (Bainbridge, 2007, p.  475). He mused that fundamental change may be on the way and that for better or for worse: virtual worlds are creating a very new context in which young people are socialized to group norms, learn intellectual skills, and express their individuality. The “graduates” of SL and WoW [World of Warcraft] may include many future engineers, natural scientists, and social scientists ready to remake the real world in the image of virtual worlds.

In brief, this early period in the development of virtual worlds portended unlimited promise. Nobody seemed sure what the promise was, but they knew it must be there, somewhere, and it must be important. A land race ensued filled with the speculation that accompanies the opening of a frontier, hyperbole, and all, and characterized by an almost Jetsons-like wonderment. Would virtual worlds have the revolutionary impacts of the World Wide Web did in the mid-1990s? For the geographer and social scientist, would there be new geographies, with new communities and places that, among other things, changed cultures and perhaps the very nature of being? Well, so far, not really. So, what happened? There had always been skeptics, of course—even at the beginning—as exemplified by columnist Joel Stein (December 25, 2006) in a humorous Time magazine portrayal of his confused and moderately dysfunctional “so-called Second Life.” Jon Udell was not convinced that virtual worlds offered significant

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long-­term value to businesses when he wrote (2006): “I can’t wait to see what the business world will make of Second Life after the novelty wears off,” making reference to the time-consuming effort required to build sites and maintain a virtual existence. He predicted (2006, p. 48) that “we’ll find that fancy 3-D designs will ultimately prove no more compelling than fancy Web pages.” Virtual worlds like Second Life are mainly social worlds and enterprises should be aware. But then, what about Gartner’s daring predictions? It did not take long to become clear that Gartner’s scenario was not going to be realized, certainly not by 2011 and clearly not at the 80 percent level forecast (at least in terms of Second Life itself ), and that virtual worlds surely would not achieve mainstream adoption in two to five years after their initial prediction. To be fair, Gartner, Inc., had always hedged its bets. They recommended (Gartner, Inc., 2007) that “enterprises should experiment with virtual worlds, but not plan massive projects, and look for community benefits rather than commerce.” By 2010, the shine was off worlds like Second Life. Barry Collins at PC Pro (2010) set the tone, though perhaps more cynically than most users: “Three years on, and Second Life seems no closer to finding a respectable reason for being than it did in 2006. It might try and shuffle sex into a corner, and pretend that it’s a melting pot of creativity, business and academic, but it ultimately serves no purpose.” He added a parting shot, “Its like the nouvelle cuisine of the 1980s: pretty, fascinating but ultimately unfulfilling” (Collins, 2010; see also the remarks by Veix, 2018). By 2017, it was apparent that educators had pulled back from virtual worlds (in the case of Second Life the loss of an educator’s discount during that period may have been part of the cause, as well as an increasingly steep technology learning curve for users). Data compiled by Hypergrid Business (Ada, 2017) showed a striking decline in the number of posts to the Second Life Educators (SLED) forum, from a peak of 1400 per month in 2007, to maybe a couple of dozen in 2017 (Ada, 2017). In addition, the “Virtual Worlds Best Practices in Education” conference, a premier annual event for Second-Life educators, dropped from a high of 3500 attendees several years ago to only 800 in 2017 (Ada, 2017). The New Media Consortium and Educause (2010, pp. 22–23), which had written glowing predictions about the two- to three-year prospects of virtual

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worlds in its 2007 report, made no direct reference to these worlds in its 2010 findings (although it made some reference to gaming and augmented reality). Other data indicated similar declines, especially to the public popularity of Second Life. Adding insult to injury, Linden Lab ended up addressing actual-world legal complaints over in-world activities (see Rubin, 2010). Gartner, Inc., proposed a model for understanding why such early enthusiasm for virtual worlds failed to last: the “Hype Cycle” that tracks emerging technologies as they progress through time in terms of their public acceptance (Fig. 1.4). In the words of Gartner, Inc., (Fenn et al., 2013, p. 3): The Hype Cycle is a graphical depiction of a common pattern that arises with each new technology or other innovation … Gartner's Hype Cycle, introduced in 1995, characterizes the typical progression of innovation, from overenthusiasm through a period of disillusionment to an eventual understanding of the innovation's relevance and role in a market or domain.

The cycle begins with an “innovation trigger” when a breakthrough generates press and industry interest in a technology innovation. The trigger then creates a buzz, and maybe even an investment bubble, Inflated Expectations Productivity Plateau

Trough of Disillusionment Increasing Time

Fig. 1.4  Technology trajectory over time. (Sources: Adapted from Hayes 2009 and Gartner Newsroom 2010)

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producing expectations that exceed the capabilities of the breakthrough, and leading to a “peak of inflated expectations.” It eventually becomes apparent that expectations are overblown, that the anticipated returns in investment will not be made, and that the curve drops precipitously into a “trough of disillusionment” in the eyes of users and the media. But alas, all is not lost as early adopters overcome the initial hurdles and begin to realize the long-term benefits. These early adopters and new users renew their embrace of the technology, creating an upward “slope of enlightenment” that generates a new, and more realistic, round of acceptance. In the final “plateau of productivity,” a relatively stable mainstream level is reached (Fenn et al. 2013, p. 5): With the real-world benefits of the technology demonstrated and accepted, growing numbers of organizations feel comfortable with the now greatly reduced levels of risk. A sharp uptick (“hockey stick”) in adoption begins, and penetration accelerates rapidly as a result of productive and useful value.

Precisely if, and how, Second Life (and other virtual worlds) proceeded along this curve remains an open question, but there has been more than one narrative making the connection between virtual-world trajectories and cycle phases. As early as late 2008, Legrand (2008) observed that virtual worlds were “slowly crawling out of the trough of disillusionment”—at the same time, ironically, as the bubble of enthusiasm seemed still to be growing. A year later, Hayes (2009) argued that these worlds had actually achieved the peak of inflated expectations as early as 2006 and that by 2009 had bottomed out in the trough of disillusionment. All was not lost, however, as the “slope of enlightenment” lay ahead. Former Gartner researcher Eddi Haskell, as quoted by Wagner James Au, wrote that technologies given up for dead may be prematurely written off and may slowly ascend into enlightenment and productivity—perhaps under a different name and after repositioning themselves. Virtual worlds may be starting to see this happen (Wagner James Au, 2015; see also Au, 2019). Since roughly 2010, Second Life and other virtual worlds have hardly witnessed an explosive crescendo of new activity. Perhaps that is part of being in the Gartner “plateau of productivity,” which implies stable but undramatic growth over time. Various media accounts and analyses suggest other, more specific reasons for unimpressive growth. First, the learning

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curve needed to acquire even a modest level of competence in a virtual world was hardly trivial. Consequently, it is mostly the hard-core users who remain—for Second Life, “It’s very difficult for an outside user to access, unless they want to spend eight to 10 hours to learn the interface” (Lee, 2017). Second, along the same lines, time is a factor. Truly living a second life cuts into the 24 hours available in any given day to live a first life—to eat, sleep, work, and complete normal daily tasks—which may help to explain why virtual spaces often look empty. Third, and this point is especially relevant, in the Wild West days of virtual worlds’ serious competition to Second Life was largely missing, especially considering the technical sophistication of the platform relative to other virtual worlds and the intriguing opportunities for in-world social interaction. It could become a second social layer to a person’s existence. And then came Facebook and the other social media. Axon (2017) noted that social media “has come to provide that meta-layer for physical reality and society—the likes of Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, et al have collectively made real one of the original dreams behind Second Life.” In brief, too many alternatives appeared on the scene (see also Leominster, 2013). Finally, the whole original notion of virtual worlds as the “next Internet” was, of course, an exaggerated vision of the future that was destined to lead to disappointment to many of the initial virtual-world enthusiasts, leaving the core audience rather than the media narrative in charge (see Axon, 2017). The educational world has particularly struggled with whether virtual worlds offer pedagogical advantages. Like with virtual-world use in general, the original fanfare of interest was followed by a more sober reassessment of utility. In a lengthy study by Gregory et al. (2015), 223 educators from 134 institutions in multiple countries were asked questions related to why they were not teaching in virtual worlds and how they saw the promise of virtual worlds going forward. Responses were clustered among categories such as technology, potential student difficulties, institutional issues, and personal perceptions (Gregory et al., 2015, p. 7). A majority of respondents had not used virtual worlds for teaching. Reasons for not using virtual worlds focused on technology and school support: the institution did not provide adequate technology, the institution did not supply sufficient funding, and there was little teaching or technical support. Lower but meaningful percentages of respondents commented that they did not have the time to get involved with virtual worlds or did not know of others who were using

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these worlds (Gregory et al., 2015, p. 8). On the other hand, over 90 percent of respondents checked “very important” or “important” to statements about virtual worlds that included: they can be motivating and engaging to learners; they can lead to improved transfer of learning to real situations; they can enable more effective collaborative learning; and they can allow learners to learn through experience in context (Gregory et al., 2015, p. 9). The authors concluded, notwithstanding the lack of mainstream status for virtual worlds in education, that “there is a future for teaching and learning in virtual worlds” (Gregory et al., 2015, p. 10). In brief, while it turns out that initial expectations were wildly exaggerated and that the subsequent collapse of interest in virtual worlds was almost as dramatic as its initial growth, the seeds were planted for something that ultimately may be enduring, even transformative. Second Life still makes money. New platforms that can accommodate better the technological needs of virtual reality are being designed and introduced, although some observers fear that a virtual-worlds-like bubble of expectations for VR may have recently burst, impacting this lifesaver for virtual worlds—see Johnson (2015) and Lee (2019). Technology trends are leading to a re-imagination and re-emergence of virtual worlds. Indeed, as if to underscore this point, teaching manuals are still being written for social virtual worlds (Perrier, 2020).

Chapter Summary and Conclusion This chapter built the foundation for understanding social virtual worlds. After introducing the key in-world players—Ana Prieto and J. T. Croxton as the immersed in-world “guides,” and Meryl McBride and Merrill Johin as the author’s alter egos—we articulated the broad purpose of the study, that is, to investigate what a social virtual world is, who the people are, the meaning of space and place, and how this type of world relates to the broader geographical project. We described the basics of the mixed-­methods analysis used in various parts of this study and provided characterizations of the participating groups. Finally, we introduced the reader to the basics of the electronic spaces that we wanted to examine—Virtual Worlds 101, we called it—noting the prominence of the avatar, the complex provenance and befuddling lexicon associated with virtual worlds, and the apparent

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rise-and-fall-and-rise of virtual worlds in the public image. We wish next to examine selected examples of social virtual worlds and how they may, or may not, fit into the geographer’s take on digital spaces.

Vignettes Vignette 1.1 Ana and JT: Getting to Know You The endearing Broadway musical and Hollywood film called The King and I featured a song about “getting to know you, getting to know all about you.” Anna, a British teacher for the children of the King of Siam, sings this song as she confronts the daunting task of introducing herself to pupils in an exotic land (at least exotic to her). It may seem as if the same song is appropriate when engaging the virtual world. For somebody fresh off the boat—the so-called newbie in the patois of the virtual

Fig. 1.5   JT and Ana having coffee on JT’s deck

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world—walking into this strange electronic land may require the same effort at “getting to know you, getting to know all about you,” as faced by the teacher and her Siamese students. It is a brand-new world, jargon, and all. Ana and JT often spend time early in the morning on JT’s front deck drinking coffee and visiting. Here is an example of a typical conversation (with translations) as Ana arrives and takes her place at JT’s front deck table: They enjoy sharing events in their virtual lives. They are in fact business partners in the virtual world, though they do little business. The coffee is virtual. The conversation and friendship are real. Rez=“resolve” or take shape

AFK = “away from keyboard”

Flying is very “natural” in Second Life. Most things, including poses, are “scripted” in Second Life. Those natural movements aren’t so “natural.” Avatar shapes are infinitely modifiable by adjusting “sliders” in the shape tool—the ultimate in vanity. A Linden, “$L,” is the Second Life monetary unit—about 250 to the U.S. dollar.

Ana: “Good morning JT!” she blurts out as she TPs to JT’s beachfront yard. “Let me finish rezzing and I will join you on the porch. I was afk earlier” JT: “Yeah, you’re nothing but a white puff of smoke,” he chuckles, knowing that she often appears that way before the system can catch up with her movement and make her look normal. Ana: “Ah, JT, I love the view of the ocean. I have my environment set to sunrise so I can watch the sun rise over the surf.” JT: “Mine is on midday. My RL time zone is later than yours.” Ana: Ana flies up to the deck and plops down next to JT’s table. She points to a chair and right-clicks, then taps “sit” from the menu. She automatically is whisked to the chair and seated in the default pose. “I don’t like your poses, JT. I have to wear pants to look good in most of them.” She clicks through the pose options until she finds the pose she likes, which shows her sitting casually with her legs crossed. Ana: She looks across to JT. “I really like your bento head, JT. Trying to impress somebody?” JT: “And your new head resembles your old look, Ana. Did you have fun with the shape sliders.?” Ana: “Not the same, JT, but close. Sliders didn’t always work. Could have been worse. Some of the heads that I shopped for were ugly, and I don’t want to look ugly!” She pauses for a moment, “Like my new hair? Cheap— just a few Lindens. Makeup is next while I still have money.” Ana: “I’m still looking for the AO that will move my lips when I talk. I hate talking to you with a stone face!” she laughs. “Almost as much as I hate this clunky body AO . . . too stiff! She looks down at her outfit, which provides only spotty coverage of her mesh body. “New clothes needed . . . shopping trip!!” JT: “What’s on your schedule today, Ana?” Ana: “Maybe I will just watch you during your dance rehearsal. Don’t you wish you could twist and turn like that in the physical world, old guy?” she snickers. JT: “Thanks for reminding me of my RL age, Ana. You know how much dancing means to me, a truly soulful experience!” He smiles, takes his coffee inside, and prepares for the day

TP = teleport

There are four adjustments for sun position.

A “bento” head is a highly realistic head that can be bought and attached to an equally realistic “mesh” body.

“Mesh” refers to a type of architecture. Legacy clothing may not fit.

AO=”automatic override.” Those natural poses when standing are actually scripted. AO’s are bought and sold for different occasions.

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work-­f rom-­h ome-­remote-­o ffice-­d esign-­review-­t raining-­e ducation-­c ad-­ telepresence-­wfh/. Accessed 4 Feb 2021. Lee, C. (2017, May 19). Who still hangs out on Second Life? More than a half a million people, Globe and Mail. Lee, W. (2019, January 13). VR gets reality check with significant decline in investment. Los Angeles Times. https://www.latimes.com/business/hollywood/ la-­fi-­ct-­virtual-­reality-­investment20190113-­story.html. Accessed 21 Oct 2019. Legrand, R. (2008, August 8). Slowly crawling out of the trough of disillusionment. Metanomics. http://www.metanomics.net/24-­aug-­2008/slowly-­ crawling-­out-­trough-­disillusionment. Accessed 25 Aug 2008. Leominster, S. (2013, May 15). Why have virtual worlds declined? The Metaverse Tribune. http://metaversetribune.com/2013/05/15/why-­have-­virtual-­worlds-­ declined/. Accessed 21 Oct 2019. Livingstone, D., & Kemp, J. (Eds.). (2006). Proceedings of the first second life education workshop, part of the 2006 Second Life community convention, August 18th–20th 2006, Fort Mason Centre, San Francisco, CA. Presented at the Second Life Education Workshop, Paisley, UK: Univ. Marshall, M.  N. (1996). The key informant technique. Family Practice, 13(1), 92–97. McGuirk, P.  M., & O’Neill, P. (2016). Using questionnaires in qualitative human geography. In I.  Hay (Ed.), Qualitative research methods in human geography. Oxford University Press. McLeod, P. L., Liu, Y.-C., & Axline, J. E. (2014). When your second life comes knocking: Effects of personality on changes to real life from virtual world experiences. Computers in Human Behavior, 39, 59–70. Meadows, M. S. (2008). I, avatar: The culture and consequences of having a second life. New Riders. Mennecke, B.  E., McNeill, D., Roche, E.  M., Bray, D.  A., Konsynski, B., Townsend, A. M., & Lester, J. (2008). Second life and other virtual worlds: A roadmap for research. Communications of the Association for Information Systems, 22(20), 371–388. Messinger, P. R., Stroulia, E., & Lyons, K. (2008). A typology of virtual worlds: Historical overview and future directions. Journal of Virtual Worlds Research, 1(1), 1–18. Mitra, B., & Golz, P. (2016). Exploring intrinsic gender identity using second life. Journal of Virtual Worlds Research, 9(2), 1–17.

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Morrison, S. (2009, August 19). A second chance for Second Life. Wall Street Journal. http://online.wsj.com/articles/SB125064110693841789.htm?mod= igoogle_wsj_gadgv&. Accessed 21 Aug 2009. Nazir, M., & Lui, C. S. M. (2016). A brief history of virtual economy. Journal of Virtual Worlds Research, 9(1), 1–24. Nevelsteen, K. J. L. (2018). Virtual world, defined from a technological perspective and applied to video games, mixed reality, and the Metaverse. Computer Animation and Virtual Worlds, 29(1), 1–22. New Media Consortium, National Learning Infrastructure Initiative, & EDUCAUSE (Association). (2007, 2010). The horizon report. Austin, TX; Boulder, CO: NMC, the New Media Consortium ; EDUCAUSE Learning Initiative. Newitz, A. (2006). Your second life is ready. Popular Science, 269(3). https:// www.popsci.com/scitech/article/2006-­09/your-­second-­life-­ready/. Accessed 8 Jan 2007. Parker, A., & Tritter, J. (2006). Focus group method and methodology: Current practice and recent debate. International Journal of Research & Method in Education, 29(1), 23–37. Peachey, A., & Childs, M. (2011). Virtual worlds and identity. In A. Peachey & M. Childs (Eds.), Reinventing ourselves: Contemporary concepts of identity in virtual worlds (pp. 1–12). Springer. Pearce, C., Blackburn, B.  R., & Symborski, C. (2015). Virtual worlds survey report: A trans-world study of non-game virtual worlds—Demographics, attitudes, and preferences (p. 134). Georgia Institute of Technology. Perrier, G. (2020). Virtual worlds teaching manual. Northern Virginia Community College. https://online.nvcc.edu/it/docs/sl/Virtual-­Words-­ Teaching-­Manual.pdf Pomeroy, R. (2007, July 27). Jesuits spread word of God in virtual world. http:// www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19997367/. Accessed 27 July 2007. Rawlinson, L. (2007, August 8). Virtual worlds: The next Facebook?. http:// www.cnn.com/2007/TECH/08/07/virtual.living/. Accessed 12 Aug 2007. Roush, W. (2007, June 18). Second earth. MIT Technology Review. https://www. technologyreview.com/2007/06/18/272040/second-­earth/ Rubin, C. (2010, May 3). A virtual world spawns a very real lawsuit. Inc. https:// www.inc.com/news/articles/2010/05/second-­life-­virtual-­land-­dispute.html. Accessed 21 Oct 2019.

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Salmon, G. (2009). The future for (second) life and learning: The future for (second) life and learning. British Journal of Educational Technology, 40(3), 526–538. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-­8535.2009.00967.x Schroeder, R. (2008). Defining virtual worlds and virtual environments. Journal of Virtual Worlds Research, 1(1), 1–3. Scott, D.  W. (2011). The discursive construct of virtual angels, temples, and religious worship: Mormon theology and culture in second life. Dialogue: A Journal of Mormon Thought, 44(1), 85–104. Shepherd, T. (2019, January 16). Mainland Census Jan 2019. Virtualverse.one. https://www.virtualverse.one/forums/threads/mainland-­c ensus-­j an-­ 2019.1676/. Accessed 7 Oct 2019. Shields, M. (2007, October 29). CNN to launch bureau in Second Life virtual world. http://www.mediaweek.com/mw/search/article_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1003664297. Accessed 31 Oct 2007. Sim Teach. (2007, March 21). Institutions and organizations in SL. Sim Teach. http://www.simteach.com/wiki/index.php?title=Institutions_and_ Organizations_in_SL. Accessed 21 Mar 2007. Sivan, Y. (2008). 3D3C real virtual worlds defined: The immense potential of merging 3D, community, creation, and commerce. Journal of Virtual Worlds Research, 1(1), 1–32. Stein, J. (2006, December 25). My so-called Second Life. Time. http://content. time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1570827,00.html Stokes, D., & Bergin, R. (2006). Methodology or “methodolatry”? An evaluation of focus groups and depth interviews. Qualitative Market Research: An International Journal, 9(2), 26–36. Sweden first to open embassy in Second Life. (2007, May 30). Reuters. https:// www.reuters.com/article/us-­sweden-­secondlife-­idUSL3034889320070530. Accessed 16 Oct 2019. The Economist. (2006, September 28). Living a second life. The Economist. https://www.economist.com/special-­report/2006/09/28/living-­a-­second-­life. Accessed 9 Jan 2007. Turkle, S. (1994). Constructions and reconstructions of self in virtual reality: Playing in the MUDS. Mind, Culture, and Activity, 1(3), 158–167. Turkle, S. (1995). Life on the screen: Identity in the age of the Internet (1. Touchstone ed.). Touchstone. Twongyirwe, R., Bithell, M., & Richards, K. S. (2018). Revisiting the drivers of deforestation in the tropics: Insights from local and key informant perceptions in Western Uganda. Journal of Rural Studies, 63, 105–119.

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Udell, J. (2006, October 16). The social metaverse: Second Life builds out the social web, a new and graphically rich 3-D environment. InfoWorld, 48. Veix, J. (2018, May 25). Exploring the digital ruins of Second Life. Digg. https:// digg.com/2018/second-­life-­in-­2018. Accessed 21 Oct 2019. Virtual World Watch. (2008). The autumn 2008 snapshot of UK higher and further education developments in Second Life. Eduserv Foundation. www.virtualworldwatch.net Wallace, M. (2006, November). Virtual worlds, virtual lives. PC World, 24(11), 133–136. Wang, F., & Burton, J. K. (2013). Second life in education: A review of publications from its launch to 2011: Second life in education. British Journal of Educational Technology, 44(3), 357–371. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-­ 8535.2012.01334.x Ward, T. B. (2015). Content, collaboration, and creativity in virtual worlds. In G. P. Green & C. K. James (Eds.), Video games and creativity (pp. 119–136). Academic Press. Welles, B. F., Rousse, T., Merrill, N., & Contractor, N. (2014). Virtually friends: An exploration of friendship claims and expectations in immersive virtual worlds. Journal of Virtual Worlds Research, 7(2), 1–15. Yee, N. (2006). Motivations for play in online games. Cyberpsychology & Behavior, 9(6), 772–775. Young, J. (2008, May 8). Co-founder of Second Life says academics are biggest trailblazers in virtual worlds. Chronicle of Higher Education.

2 Where in the World Are These Worlds?

So now that we have graduated from “Virtual Worlds 101,” we can ask the question, “where in the world are we?” Where are we in terms of the geographer’s craft? Where are we when we are inside these social virtual worlds? Where are we on the map? When Ana entered Second Life (SL) for the first time, she found herself standing in a reception area where “newbie” avatars landed. She gazed at her very new and different electronic surroundings—awestruck, mystified, mesmerized, a little fearful about what she had done to jeopardize her sanity. She remembers that another avatar approached her and texted, “where are you from?” She slowly texted back: “not … from … here.” It is a relief to acknowledge that, many years later, she is very much “from here.” The purpose of this chapter is to explore what “being from here” is all about in social virtual worlds. More to the point, we are guided in this chapter by the study questions posed at the beginning of Chap. 1: Where does a social virtual world fit in the profile of interests that defines geography? How can existing geographical scholarship be adapted to understand better the social virtual world and, in turn, how can such a world be used to inform better the geographer’s craft? What do some of these social virtual worlds and their © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 M. L. Johnson, Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-8626-9_2

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maps look like? How do we experience and understand “concocted” spaces and their maps?

 ow Can the Geographer’s Craft Be Related H to Social Virtual Worlds?  arly Geographical Expressions and Social E Virtual Worlds So, where has geographical interest lain in the study of social virtual worlds? This interest has been spotty, though hardly absent or unnoteworthy, and often required a degree of conjecture or speculation to establish conceptual intersections. Considerable scholarship, of course, has historically been produced on issues related to technology and mapping, and geographical involvement with the Internet (see, for early examples, Dodge & Kitchin, 2001a, b, Warf & Grimes, 1997, Shields, 1999, Warf, 2001, Starrs & Huntsinger, 1995; a recent example is Warf, 2020). In addition, geographers have shown curiosity in the geographical significance of cyberpunk literature such as Gibson’s Neuromancer (Gibson, 1984) and Stephenson’s Snowcrash (Stephenson, 1992). Neal Stephenson, in particular, produced a “one-ofus” moment for geographers with his B.A. in geography (Boston ­ University). His portrayal in Snowcrash of a dysfunctional physical world and an increasingly dystopic electronic world is credited with inspiring the development of three-dimensional social virtual worlds such as Second Life, although his social pathologies were not necessarily re-created in these worlds (Starrs & Huntsinger, 1995; see also Kitchin & Kneale, 2001, Spigel, 2011). An early geographical exploration of the nature of virtual worlds was provided by Taylor in 1997 (1997, pp. 172–192; see also Hillis, 1996 in this context, and Collinson, 1997 about cartographic challenges). In a special edition of The Geographical Review that focused on cyber and geographical spaces, and their themes of discourse and contestation (Adams & Warf, 1997, pp.  139–145), Taylor engaged artistic and literary

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discourses, military discourses, museums of the real, and capitalist discourses in the context of increasingly possible three-dimensional computer map presentations. While he tended to conflate discussions of virtual reality (VR) with those of virtual worlds—not unexpected given the technology of the day—he addressed issues that resonate with any current observer of virtual worlds. We need to look no further than his discussions of the potential “reality” of electronic geographic places that constitute nonmaterial equivalents of the physical world (1997, p. 178), and the “transcendence” that, for some, could resemble the ecstatic religious experience of the shaman (1997, p.  180) as a person becomes immersed in the electronic world. He made specific reference to the lives and interactions of avatars in AlphaWorld (of which Active Worlds became a part). He concluded that (1997, p. 190): we need to keep in mind that virtual worlds are environments in which a growing number of people will spend an increasing amount of time. Because of this, VR should become increasingly important to geographers. To be within a virtual world is to have an intrinsically geographical experience, as virtual worlds are experienced fundamentally as places. Each virtual world has its own internal geographies: a virtual physical geography, which contains no actual physical objects but nonetheless can be mapped and navigated, and, in the case of multiuser virtual worlds, a virtual human geography of social interaction.

In brief, Taylor helped to set the stage for later geographical interest in social virtual worlds. Taylor was not alone in setting the stage. In the same issue of The Geographical Review, Adams (1997, pp.  155–171) offered a prescient vision of that which has come to define many virtual-world landscapes, though he made no specific reference to virtual worlds. His governing “virtual-place metaphors” (1997, p. 155; for more on metaphors from a contemporaneous source, see Graham, 1998, p. 166) associated with expanding computer networks focused on (1) architectural metaphors that “extrapolate from familiar built environments to electronic media, modeling virtual places on building interiors and urban spaces” (1997, p.  158)—that is, converting unfamiliar virtual landscapes to resemble

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what is known and comforting about physical landscapes; (2) frontier metaphors, as in the “electronic” or “virtual” frontiers that, while not occupying terrestrial space, still appeal to the drives, emotions, and expansive values that motivated the pioneers about which Frederick Jackson Turner wrote—that is, the “wider fields” in which the “perennial rebirth” of frontiers is expected will find expression in computer networks (cited in Adams, 1997, pp. 161–162); and (3) cyberspace ontological metaphors that address issues of disembodiment and transcendence of the body as users enter an “interaction-defined space” in which people come together and merge with a “technology in which other persons are merging” (1997, p.  164)—that is, geographical distance and relationships become irrelevant as relational and cognitive spaces emerge as the very real domains in which people work, play, and find community (1997, p. p. 165). Adams concluded by “mixing” metaphors to describe future spaces that easily can embrace the social virtual worlds examined in this study: “Future analyses of electronic contexts will deal with a frontier contained in virtual architecture—not ‘home on the range’ but a range reconstituted in the home, a frontier occupied by virtual organisms that merge with a landscape or architecture” (1997, p. 167). He added that “With computers and network society, the extrapolation is not from an old place or landscape to a new place or landscape but from place and landscape in general to a sociotechnological system that is largely immaterial yet seems to have the attributes of a place or landscape” (1997, p.  167). While a person may argue that modern social virtual worlds constitute more than simple sociotechnological systems, it is hard not to read Adams’ conceptual exploration without posting a sign that reads, “Welcome to Second Life.” At about the same time, geographers were attempting to understand how geography fit into “cyberspace” as a whole, irrespective of the specific circumstances surrounding virtual worlds (Kitchin, 1998; see also Dodge, 2001 and, for a recent update, Kellerman, 2021). A central concern was whether the insights of geography still counted for anything in a world of wires and nodes, in which time and space apparently were obliterated, and in which physical proximity played a diminished role relative to cyber connections in the creation of relationships. Kitchin argued that geography remained both relevant and important, and provided an

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in-depth analysis of the “spatiality of cyberspace” (1998, p. 388), focusing on the economic, social, cultural, and political geographies of cyberspace. Of particular relevance to social virtual worlds was his attention to the manner in which user identities might be influenced by the cyber environment. He described possible responses ranging from an almost utopian hope for disembodiment to a belief that the electronic identity was essentially a cyborgian extension of the physical self—that is, there is no actual separation between the user’s mind and the object in the screen. Cyberspaces often bear striking resemblances to physical spaces; actual-­ world cultural traditions, habits, and even prejudices, populate these spaces. “Clearly, the role of the body in interaction on-and off-line is different, but to what extent are our real bodies being metaphorically re-­ created as virtual bodies in cyberspace?” (1998, p.  395). The issue of avatar identity is discussed in detail, below, but even now it remains true that “untangling cyberspatial identity is complex” (1998, p.  395). Understanding online communities is equally vexing. How can true relationships emerge among people given how potentially fluid online identities may be and how transient in-world experiences may be. Kitchin remarked that (1998, p. 397) “In communities in ‘real space,’ community members must and do live together. It is not simply a case of logging on and, when we feel like it, logging off.” He concluded that the discussions about electronic spaces should not exclude geography (1998, p. 403): cyberspaces do not replace geographic spaces, nor do they destroy space and time. Rather, cyberspaces coexist with geographic spaces providing a new layer of virtual sites superimposed over geographic spaces. Geographers are well placed to study the interplay between virtual worlds and geographic spaces.

The extent to which modern social virtual worlds take on the layering described by Kitchin is a subject of ongoing discussion. It is clear, however, that the geographies that he described, particularly as related to identity and community, helped to establish a role for geographers in understanding social virtual worlds. While geographers were not concerning themselves with three-dimensional social virtual worlds, per se

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(they largely did not exist), geographers were establishing a disciplinary relevance to the larger conversations surrounding cyberspace of which social virtual worlds could be a part. By the mid-1990s virtual worlds were becoming more three-­ dimensional and mappable. Dodge and Kitchin (2001a, b), in their Atlas of Cyberspace, went to great lengths to “detail a number of different attempts to map the spatial extent of Alpha World” (2001a, b, p. 195; see also Dodge & Kitchin, 2000; Damer, 1997). For its time, Alpha World was a marvel of virtual landscape creation. The “world,” as it was presented, embraced the equivalent of nearly 430,000 square kilometers. The green, featureless landscape presented the ultimate “greenfield” experience for avatars, as they could begin anew the creation of streets, buildings, and communities. The settlement process was nothing less than a “homesteading” experience in which people (i.e., their avatars) could claim as their own a part of this greenscape. Lego-like building blocks— more than a 1000 different types—could be used to build on, and to develop, the land. Other homesteaders would appear on the scene to fashion their own spaces, often near an early pioneer. The result frequently was a spatial agglomeration of avatar activity, often in structures and settings that closely mimicked actual-world cognates. The authors remarked that the maps produced could be used as “a kind of proxy for analyzing the underlying processes of urban and social development” (Dodge & Kitchin, 2001a, b, p. 195). Indeed, the authors made reference to multi-scale maps of the sprawling ribbons of urban development that extended out of source areas to produce imagery not unlike that produced by actual-world satellites (see the references made by the authors to cartographers such as Vilett, Roelofs, and Van der Meulen, pp. 205–208). Dodge and Kitchin helped geographers to understand in a practical sense that “virtuality” was “real,” at least in terms of mapping and the manner in which users could interact with these mappable landscapes. Alpha World was truly an “alpha” experience for geographers (more generally, see also Thrift, 1996; Dodge, 2001; Kitchin & Kneale, 2001; Shields, 2003). In a later article, Sui (2008) advocated a growing role of GIS (geographic information systems) in social virtual worlds. Sui was among the first writers to make specific reference to Second Life and how “geospatial

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technologies have been increasingly used to map out the geography of SL” (2008, n.p.) He was encouraged that “mapping SL using GIS will further promote the use of spatialization as a method to understand the nonspatial world” (2008, n.p.). The role of GISc is explored in greater detail at the end of this chapter. Early on, non-geographers and publication outlets that are not generally associated with geographers became interested in “geographical” topics, occasionally with idiosyncratic outcomes. Boulos and Burden (2007), for example, sought to map and access live news stories and feeds in real time in both Second Life and the actual world, involving “Web GIS” presentations. Roush (2007) gushed about the potential of mashups between Snow-Crash-like virtual worlds and commercial simulated landscapes, but was particularly enthusiastic about the prospect of a true “Metaverse” (a la Stephenson) or “Second Earth,” as he phrased it. The “world” will comprise multiple “worlds” built on different platforms and managed by different organizations, but accessible by all users. In his words (p. 42): The word “Metaverse” will refer to both the overarching collection of these worlds and the main port of entry to them, a sort of Grand Cyber Station that links to all other destinations. The central commons itself could be designed as a mirror world or a virtual world or some interleaving of the two: People logging in to the Metaverse might want it to look like Manhattan or the Emerald City of Oz, depending on the task at hand. But either way, partisans say, the full Metaverse will encompass thousands of individual virtual worlds and [italics by author] mirror worlds, each with its own special purpose. To borrow a trope from corporate networking, it will be an “interverse” connecting many local “intraverses.”

Roush acknowledged that such an electronic universe would be a long time in coming, and so far it has not come—at least in a manner to fit his vision—although multiple social virtual world platforms have appeared. Typically, for example, a Second-Life avatar cannot travel freely among them. Roush was attempting to conceptualize a “new” geography. As if in juxtaposition to Roush, the end of geography was forecast by Cory Ondrejka, one of the creators of Second Life and its former Chief Technology Officer (2007). After admitting that “Geography constrains

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everything humans do and that “Geography is an inescapable feature of all our lives” (p. 27), he contended that a transformation was on the way that would lead to the collapse of geography; at some point, the information economy and its distance-destroying properties would carry the day. He outlined the ways in which virtual worlds, particularly Second Life, will take the lead in this transformation to a frictionless existence (2007, p. 27). While many observers will conclude that Ondrejka’s arguments had some merit, he tended to over-generalize about geographic processes.

The Landscapes of Social Virtual Worlds Part of the wonder of social virtual worlds lies in the screen portrayal of the physical and cultural settings in which avatars build their places and perform their identities. In other words, social virtual worlds produce landscapes that can be as absorbing and immersive as those enjoyed in the physical world (and, of course, the same can be said for video games and other electronic spaces). The landscape tradition is historically important to geography, particularly in its relationship to the humanities (see Cosgrove in Daniels et al., 2011, pp. xxii-xxv). A common way of viewing landscape is as something intensely visual, or in the words of Cresswell (2015, p. 17, referring to Cosgrove 1984 and Jackson 1997), as “a portion of the earth’s surface that can be viewed from one spot.” He added that landscape combines “a focus on the material topography of a portion of land (that which can be seen) with the notion of vision (the way it is seen).” How do we see landscapes through the lens of social virtual worlds? First, they are still aesthetically pleasing experiences. Writing from a literary perspective, we see this in Hayot and Wesp’s (2009, p. 3/16) portrayal of the Everquest experience “as a work of art which represents a world and the idea of a world.” Some of these aesthetic experiences in social virtual worlds come across as strikingly real, and evocative of the same emotions experienced looking at actual-world equivalents—perhaps like viewing that picture on the wall. A person can sense in Second Life the grittiness of life in Tudor England by viewing the architectural replications (including a theater-in-the-round) of Elizabethan London or the elegance of an

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eighteenth-century Italian manor. Other virtual-world landscapes are more fanciful and imagined, but still constitute artistic expressions (see Schwartz, 2008). Second, and as Cosgrove emphasized (see especially 1998), the landscape is more than an aesthetically satisfying expression viewed from a single spot in space and point in time, but as a reflection of one’s “way of seeing” (see Lilley, in Hubbard et  al., 2004, pp.  84–89). More to the point, as shared by Lilley (citing Cosgrove, p  85), “‘landscape is not merely the world we see, it is a construction, a composition of the world’ … ‘an ideological concept.’” Longan (2008, p. 25) reinforced this point in terms of gaming when he wrote about the: tension between the objective and subjective status of the landscape idea. Geographers once considered landscape to be a portion of the earth’s surface that could be objectively studied. However, landscapes are also invested with symbolic and cultural meaning by people who produce and view them.

They are “visions of the world, or ‘texts,’ that are filtered through an ideological lens” (Longan, 2008, p. 25). Finally, unlike the way that many traditional landscapes have been viewed, virtual-world landscapes are interactive or works-in-progress. Hayot and Wesp (2009), for example, saw virtual-world geographies (and indirectly landscapes) not only as aesthetic creations, as mentioned above, but as dynamic expressions—“playing fields” or “substrates” on which people “imagine notions of space and place” (p. 2/16). They saw the game, referring specifically to Everquest, as “an anthropological surface supporting player behavior, movement and community-building” (p. 3/16). Addressing landscapes more directly (though in games), Jones and Osborne (2020) provided an even more dynamic and layered perspective on the electronic landscape. They remarked that (p. 193): game landscapes act as a kind of palimpsest. The designers produce the environments with certain intentions in mind, but these will be performatively reinscribed as gamers seek to impose their own priorities on those spaces … Gaming landscapes can thus be seen as both spatial and

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­ erformative, with a grounding in the kinds of spatial uses seen in everyday p landscapes, but reworked by the demands of gameplay.

In brief, geographers may look at social virtual worlds from yet another perspective, that of the landscape geographer. Many of the spaces and places offer an aesthetic satisfaction that is every bit as compelling as that which is visible in the actual world, all the while urging a new “way of seeing” by the user.

Social Virtual Worlds and the “Neo” in Neogeography By the early 2000s, increasingly sophisticated computer technology, particularly the growth of so-called Web 2.0, created easy access to spatial data for the average citizen, often redefining the need for geographical “professionals” to participate in the production and interpretation of spatial data. We entered the world of “neogeography.” The term’s origin can be traced to the 1920s (Rana & Joliveau, 2009, pp. 214–215), but it was not formally introduced into the geographer’s lexicon until Eisnor and Platial.com (now defunct) made the introductions in 2006 (see the citation in Hudson-Smith et  al., 2009). Neogeography appeared among a flurry of neologisms used to describe the new world of citizen participation in spatial data that included mashups, push-pins, public participation, social networking, volunteered geographical information, crowd-sourced data, user-generated content, open-source API (Application Programming Interfaces), “do-it-yourself ” cartography, location-based services, geocaching, geoweb, and wikification (see Crampton, 2009; Rana & Joliveau, 2009; Goodchild, 2009; Satyaprakash, 2010; Warf & Sui, 2010; Lesczynski 2014; Lin, 2021), although Cooper et  al. (2017) felt compelled to remind people not to assign complete equivalence to these new terms. The term “wikification” offers insight into, and a parallel of sorts about, how neogeography was initially conceived. Just as Wikipedia defines itself as a “multilingual online encyclopedia created and maintained as an open collaboration project[4] by a community of volunteer editors using a wiki-­ based editing system” (Wikipedia, 2020), neogeography was initially

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viewed as an open and collaborative project, a proliferation of “amateur” citizen mappers making use of the nearly ubiquitous intelligent mapping opportunities to participate in the production and use of geographic knowledge. No formal cartographic training or GIS expertise was required. Need to find a pizza place? Pull out the smartphone, open GoogleMaps and a map appears, narrated by a friendly female voice. Do the maps reflect standard cartographic design principles? Who cares? In other words, mapping had become participatory and increasingly embedded within the everyday practices of people who knew no more about geography and mapping than that which could be pulled up on a small screen to satisfy an immediate need or interest (see Wilson & Graham, 2013; Corbett & Legault, 2019; see also Roush, 2007). It had become a “do it yourself ” activity.  Hakley (citing Turner in Hakley et  al., 2008, pp.2020, 2021) remarked that “Essentially, Neogeography is about people using and creating their own maps, on their own terms and by combining elements of an existing toolset. Neogeography is about sharing location information with friends and visitors, helping shape context, and conveying understanding through knowledge of place.” Eisnor in 2006 (as cited in Hudson-Smith & Crooks, 2008, n.p.) echoed the prevailing wisdom of the time: Neogeography is: a diverse set of practices that operate outside, or alongside, or in a manner of, the practices of professional geographers. Rather than making claims on scientific standards, methodologies of Neogeography tend towards the intuitive, expressive, personal, absurd, and/or artistic, but may just be idiosyncratic applications of ‘real’ geographic techniques. This is not to say that these practices are of no use to the cartographic/geographic sciences, but that they just usually do not conform to the protocols of professional practice.

Finally, Graham (2010) wrote about neogeography and the “palimpsests,” or layering, of places over time, including layers responding to recent advances in information and communication technologies and the emergence of a digital or virtual earth (Graham, 2010, p. 423). In keeping with the broader definitions of neogeography, he argued that “the construction of a virtual dimension to our planet is an unprecedented

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feat of engineering. Hundreds of thousands of writers, cartographers, designers, technicians, engineers, photographers and artists have contributed their labour to creating digital representations of the physical world” (p. 423). In other words, the latest palimpsests are digital creations and the product of a wide array of contributors who probably did not take GIS 101 in college. So, what does “neo” geography mean for “geography”? At first glance, one may fear the demise of mapping. This anxiety is reinforced by article titles such as “NEOGEOGRAPHY: Goodbye to GIS?” (Satyaprakash, 2010). And it is true, as asserted by Warf and Sui (2010, p. 197), that neogeography has pointed to “a profound shift in the nature and role of geographic information, a transition characterized by a ‘bottom up’ reconfiguration in how data are collected, transmitted, analyzed, visualized, and utilized that differs considerably from traditional ‘top-down’ models in which experts and government agencies dictate the criteria of data collection, analysis, applications, and standards of truth.” But it is an exaggeration to claim that mapping has been hijacked by an unwashed mass of amateurs interested only in finding the nearest pizza place on their phones. Goodchild (2009, p.  94) pointed out that “volunteered geographic information” or “VGI,” as he labeled it—that is, “the actions of thousands of individuals who are now contributing user-generated geographic content in the Web”—may in a fashion complement the work of academic geographers. He expressed optimism that such a “hybrid solution” to the creation of geographic information may (Goodchild, 2009, p. 95; see also Byrne & Pickard, 2016): provide an alternative to an older authoritative source of geographic data that has become too expensive for governments to maintain, and too expensive and difficult for the average person to use. That alternative is by its nature asserted, because it comes with none of the mechanisms for quality control favoured by mapping agencies—but as we have seen other mechanisms associated with amateur efforts may well provide suitable assurances of quality.”

Other geographers have moved beyond the surface fear that the discipline may be watching a core activity watered down to the point of irrelevance.

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For example, Warf and Sui (2010, p. 197) argued that the rise of neogeography has facilitated the adoption of relational views of space and place. More to the point, neogeography has “injected relational space into the hitherto rather closed world of GIS” (Warf & Sui, 2010, p. 202). GIS is no longer just about grids and Cartesian spaces, but now can incorporate people’s lived experiences into its design—a good thing, they would maintain. Involvement of everyday life is accomplished through multiple neogeographies using mirror worlds, virtual worlds, lifelogging, and augmented reality (Warf & Sui, 2010, p. 202). While there are hazards employing citizen participation (e.g., “crowd wisdom” can become “crowd stupidity”), the expanded notion of GIS, accompanied by a broadened conceptualizations of “truth,” can be beneficial to the discipline. Warf and Sui (2010, p. 205) concluded that “It is imperative for professional geographers and GIScientists to seize this unprecedented opportunity to make geography and GIScience more socially relevant by acknowledging the validity of user-generated communities of truth, the multiplicity of criteria that define useful knowledge, and the complex spatialities that arise from crowds who harness GIS for their own, rather than academic purposes.” Along the same lines, Elwood and Mitchell (2013) examined ways in which neogeographies may emerge as “key sites of political formation” (p. 275) engaged by a wide variety of actors who should be recognized for their “socially and politically significant ‘knowledge work’” (p.  287), effort that increasingly will contribute to decision-making. Leszczynski (2014, pp. 67–68) examined further the societal, political, and economic implications of neogeography—not all of which may be helpful—by focusing on the meaning of “neo.” She maintained that the manner in which “neo” is viewed has three potentially alarming implications: First, the term inoculates neogeographers against the discomfort produced regarding the socially constructed and contested nature of GIS, giving the old geography a “paleo” content that, by definition, should be discounted as irrelevant. Second, the term allows corporations and others that produce and store locational information to downplay or dismiss— to rationalize away—the societal consequences of their actions, particularly in terms of privacy, because of the newness of the technology (p. 69). Third, profit pressures consistently lobby consumers into adopting still

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newer and better technologies—that is, “neo” is a marketing ploy. In the words of Leszczynski (p. 75), the “neo” in “neogeography” “signals the ways in which the asserted or purported newness of these technologies functions as a depoliticizing device, as a rationalization of the societal consequences of spatial media, and as a basis for proliferation and profit.” So, what does “neo” geography mean for social virtual worlds? It should be noted at the outset that social virtual worlds largely have either been ignored, or treated tangentially, as illustrations of neogeography, with relatively little subsequent analysis (see Hudson-Smith & Crooks, 2008; Hudson-Smith et al., 2009; Warf & Sui, 2010); Sui (2008) served as an exception. The conceptualizations surrounding neogeography, however, can be related to social virtual worlds in several ways: • There is no better example of “wikification.” Indeed, the founders of Second Life made the point that they were creating an electronic space that would be designed and developed by its users, a proliferation of mapping “do-it-yourselfers.” • Crowd stupidity. Warf and Sui wrote about the “crowd wisdom” that can be expressed as a part of neogeographical processes, but they also recognized the possibility of “crowd stupidity.” As will be discussed below, just because residents of worlds such as Second Life have the ability to create mappable spaces does not mean that they will create spaces that make sense to a trained geographer or even a non-­ geographer with common sense. On the other hand, maybe a world of fantasy allows users to turn the “stupidity” into “creative license.” • Relevance to all worlds may be understated. A unifying understanding in the discussion of neogeographies is that they are not going to disappear. “Crowd-sourced,” or “volunteered geographic information,” or whatever it may be called, will constitute part of the production of geographic knowledge going forward, and will reflect, and will have an impact on, everyday lives and decision-making. The same prediction can be made about social virtual worlds, although the context may be different.

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 oward “Digital Turns” and the Placement T of Virtual Worlds The twenty-first century brought with it continued attempts to understand cyberspace geographies, although increasingly the binary implications of cyberspace versus geographic space were called into question (see Kinsley, 2014). Conversations among geographers related to specific social virtual worlds remained limited in number; however, there have been multiple analyses of the nature of virtual space, and the relationship of people to this space, from which inferences can be drawn for social virtual worlds. Shaw and Warf (2009), in particular, examined the relationship between the user and the life on the screen. They focused specifically on electronic “games” (which in their analyses included social virtual worlds such as Second Life [p. 1334], notwithstanding the distinctions made in this study). They commented that “it is surprising that so few human geographers have engaged the topic (p.  1332).” Drawing on non-­ representational theory, they sought to understand the relevance of precognitive and embodied reactions, or affects, of users to the screen experience. They viewed game spaces as “worlds of representation” associated with “worlds of affect” (p. 1333). Of particular relevance to future conversations about social virtual worlds was their descriptions of the worlds of affect, particularly in three-dimensional settings, that often include immersive moments that, whether through excitement, fear, or some other emotion, lead to an immersive response that creates a sense of otherness. They wrote that (pp. 1340–1341): much of the enjoyment derived from video games is derived from embracing the in-between moments and events within virtual worlds where players exist ‘outside themselves’ as constellations of shifting affects. Virtual worlds provide the space necessary to rearticulate everyday affective sensations through an assault on the senses. Video game worlds expose bodies to events which produce a range of affects from fear to joy. Game space is increasingly an affective landscape, and once the player turns his or her attention to the experience of space, he or she is shaped not by the representations of space, but of the body’s affective [all italics by authors]

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a­ rticulation in another world. Like a roller coaster, the player experiences the thrill of virtual space without the risks: a premeditated adrenaline. As such, the link between the representative and the affective dimensions of game space is more a Möbius strip than a clearly cut divide.

There is no question that worlds of affect can be associated with social virtual worlds. On the other hand, the affective sensations experienced may be less dramatic and thrilling than the “going-for-the-kill” moments associated with many video games. There is little reason to believe that Shaw and Warf would disagree that visiting an in-world art gallery, shopping for an outfit, or walking the tree-lined streets of a favorite residential area in a social virtual world may produce an affective landscape every bit as authentic and meaningful as that produced in the video game. Shaw and Warf, along with Kitchin and others, helped to advance a geography of cyberspace that was complex, multifaceted, and presented intriguing prospects for the study of human geography going forward. Along the same lines, Ash (2010; see also 2009) further examined the “affective” side of the relationship between users and their screens in his analysis of how game designers (focusing on one enterprise in his study) attempted to produce “positively affective encounters” and how this process relied on planning by game designers for often unknowable contingencies. He emphasized the importance of viewing the design process as an “ecological emergence” of various entities, forces, and rules in a material assemblage (p. 667) that may or may not lead to the designer’s desired outcomes. Many games fail simply because designers do not get it right in terms of predicting affective responses. Of particular relevance to social virtual worlds is a final statement made by Ash related to the “shaping” of the player’s body as part of the experience. He argued that (p. 668): the body is shaped through the creative responses generated by users in relation to the image they experience, rather than the images themselves. Moreover, these responses are not negative or manipulative; they positively bring into being different bodily capacities and modes of attunement, which cannot be intentionally determined by those who produce the images through the processes of design.

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Ash’s observation offers two implications for users of social virtual worlds. First, it would seem, extending Ash’s logic in this regard, that users in a world such as Second Life are shaped by the images that they “experience” rather than the images that they see on the screen, much akin to gaming. As is discussed below, the “experience” of social virtual worlds is everything, from the creative responses by the body that flow from a fully immersed avatar to the “affect” that emerges from a cherished place. Social virtual worlds can create “positively affective encounters.” Second, the “authorial intention” of game designers to anticipate and to produce these encounters may be less of an issue for designers of social virtual worlds than for gamers. Second Life, in particular, confers authorship on its residents, providing only the rudiments (landscapes, physics, building materials, infrastructure, etc.), such that the positive encounters are more the responsibility of the user than the provider. On a broader scale, Kinsley (2014) argued that geographical outlooks had changed since the twentieth century. He spoke against “persistent tropes” that fed into binary “immaterial” versus “material” conceptualizations of virtual geographies, which included “cyberspaces,” “infobahns,” “matrices,” and “virtual realities,” in favor of “greater attention to the material conditions of contemporary digitally inflected spatial formations” and argued for “ materially grounded geographical studies of the digital” (p. 365). Kinsley gleaned from the literature three contemporary digital-geographical themes—that is, and in his words, “articulations of digitally mediated activity”—often suggestive of a technological “otherness,” to which he objected as too immaterial. These themes included: (1) automatic production of space—that is, code spaces or spaces of everyday life that are automatically influenced by software operating in the background; (2) spaces of calculation—that is, the network-induced “technologies of calculation and governance that are employed to control, regulate and secure spaces” such as may be found with population statistics; and (3) transductions (which may offer particular relevance to social virtual worlds), the bringing together of “human” and “nonhuman” processes, and understanding the changes that are ongoing in the embodied forms of mediated activity such that spatial formations (and everyday life) are never fully resolved (Kinsley, 2014, pp.  367–370). He argued subsequently that a helpful way of understanding transductions, in

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particular—that is, of the relationship between the person and technology in non-binary worlds—is to think in terms of “technic” and “technicity,” terms that relate to the nature of the human/nonhuman relationship and its emergent qualities (p. 371; for more on technicity, see Ash, 2012). At the risk of oversimplifying complex ideas, the “evolution” of technology and the “evolution” of people occur jointly and influence each other under singularly material circumstances. Over time, to use Kinsey’s words, “humans and technology mutually co-constitute one another in an ongoing formulation of associative milieus” (p. 372). He issued a call for geographers continually to ask: “how are the material fabric and spatial practices of particular digital geographies (continually) created and modulated (that is: transduced [italics from author]), and how do they vary in complexity, depth, pacing and reach?” (p.  378). He concluded that (p. 379): through a technogenetic understanding of the human and the technical as always already intertwined, that the matters of ‘digital geographies’ are continually animated and modulated. This marks ‘digital geographies’ as an ongoing and pressing concern for geographical study.

Kinsey emphasized use of the expression “digital geographies” (as has much of the scholarly conversation that followed) as an alternative for “cyber-geographies” and related terms. And it is in this context that we may insert discussions of social virtual worlds, even though they were never a part of the original conversation. They clearly constitute a comingling of the person and technology in the manner described by “transduction,” a comingling that is constantly evolving “associative milieus.” Are these worlds material in the manner described by Kinsey? In a sense they are, given the computer (and other) infrastructure created to maintain them. But there may still be room to conjecture whether the worlds inhabited by user’s avatars hit all the material marks described by Kinsey. From “cyber-geographies” and “digital geographies,” we can move to the companion expression of “digital worlds” and the broader “digital turn” that is shaping twenty-first-century geography. As before, there have been relatively few specific references to virtual worlds but plenty of opportunities for deduction and conjecture. In their broad and

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comprehensive review of information technology and geography, Ash et al. (2018) described the latest of the various “turns” in geographical thinking, focusing this time the “digital turn.” They commented on how, as of 2018, technology had become infused everywhere in the geographer’s craft—“pervasive to geographic practice and scholarship across sub-disciplines regardless of conceptual approach” (pp.  41–42). They referred to “the digital” as (p. 26): material technologies characterized by binary computing architectures; the genre of socio-techno-cultural productions, artefacts, and orderings of everyday life that result from our spatial engagement with digital mediums; and the logics that both structure these ordering practices as well as their effects.

Their question was how these pervasive technologies influenced the production of geographical knowledge. They proposed three (somewhat overlapping) categories to define the relationship between the increasingly quotidian presence of the digital and geographical knowledge. These categories include the following: • Geographies “through” the digital: The quantitative revolution in geography and the subsequent explosion of interest in geographic information systems/science were built on digital computing—that is, knowledge was obtained “through” these digital means (2018, pp. 28–29). • Geographies produced “by” the digital: The focus here is on how digital capabilities are themselves shaping the world and its social-spatial relations (p. 29). Of interest have been the emergence of “smart” and “neoliberal” cities increasingly transformed by the technologies used in urban management (often in support of corporate priorities), the spatial inequities produced by “digital divides,” the essential commodification of information/communication technologies (think smartphones here), and of course the proliferation of location-based technologies that go to the heart of the geographer’s craft. They added (Ash et al., 2018, p. 32) that these consequent spaces go by a variety of

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terms, including “code/spaces,” “hybrid spaces,” “digiplaces,” “net localities,” “augmented realities,” and “mediated spatialities.” • Geographies “of ” the digital: Early on, there was a sense that geographies could be created within digital space, geographies that could be visualized and mapped as part of a “cybersphere.” Games and virtual worlds fit here. The authors argued that views “of ” the digital have evolved to include examinations of the relationship of the user and the screen, and how engaging and communicating through these screens affect spatial understandings and social relationships of users (see the discussions of “affect,” above); actual geographies that appear in the physical world as a result of ubiquitous computing; and the geographic spaces of “big data.” The authors concluded by encouraging students of the “digital turn” to engage the digital through analyses of assemblages that include (p. 37) “charting the wider discursive and material practices that interact in relational, contingent and contextual ways to shape the design, deployment, normalization and use of digital technologies in ways that serve and sustain particular kinds of interests.” They did not advocate privileging specific methods or approaches in this study, but hoped that geographers would (p. 38) “adopt and embrace an epistemological, ontological, and methodological openness in their engagement with the digital.”1 Ash et al. (2018) were among the first geographers to address the phenomenon of the social virtual world, if only in a general and indirect manner, in their geographies “of ” the digital. They noted that early geographical engagements “took the form of a theoretical and empirical exploration of the digital as a particular geographical domain with its own logics and structures” (p. 32). They added that the “spatial experience was primarily understood as the co-production between a cognitively imbued human body, a set of objects that made up an environment, and the mind which operated to unify this set of disjunctive entities into a holistically experienced world. As a kind of spatial landscape, it appeared 1  While not addressed specifically in this part of the study, selected additional sources include Foucault (1980), Castells (1996), Crang et al. (1999), Hillis (1999), Fisher and Unwin (2001), Graham and Zook (2013), Kinsley (2013).

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logical to map cyberspace as one would any new terrain” (Ash et  al., 2018, pp.  32–33). Of particular relevance to the study at hand is the question, can we elaborate and clarify our understanding of the “holistically experienced world” as it pertains to the virtual-world setting? For example, to what extent is avatar identity, and the relationship between the avatar and its user, experienced holistically? Social virtual worlds have their own rules and logics (just try teleporting in the actual world!). How do these rules and logics inform that holistic experience? How is it still “holistic”? On a practical level, how do geographers engage such worlds? In summary, mainstream geography has not expended major effort to understand the relevance of virtual worlds to the geographer’s craft. This absence of effort, however, should not be construed to mean that electronic worlds constitute irrelevant spaces. They are different spaces, just as online spaces in general are “different.” Furthermore, much that has been written about “cyberspace,” “virtual geographies,” “digital worlds,” “transductions,” “neogeographies,” among other expressions, from which extrapolations to virtual worlds can be made. Other scholars should be acknowledged for their contributions to the emergence of geographical thinking regarding space, place, and the new virtual geographies, however they may be defined and whatever their implications may be (see, for example, Thrift, 1996; Baudrillard, 1993; Crampton 2004; Nunes, 2006; Warf, 2001; Warf & Grimes, 1997; Chen et al., 2013).

Selected Social Virtual Worlds and Their Maps The Social Virtual World Lay of the Land What do social virtual worlds look like? Where can the uninitiated user begin and what can he or she expect? There is a wide array of platforms to choose from, each with its own flavor, but in every instance we remain focused on the “social” virtual world as explained by Gottschalk (2010) and others. Having said that, we make a minor distinction between the traditional “comprehensive” social virtual world and the

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“mission-oriented” social virtual world, the latter of which contains the characteristics of the former except with an overarching theme related to play. We will review a selection of older and more recognizable worlds— those worlds that represent pioneer platforms and/or have left a particularly significant impact on the user community—followed by a look at more recent additions to the list. It is important to emphasize that we are dealing with only a limited selection of numerous worlds. Hypergrid Business (see Korolov, 2015) listed over 260 “hypergrid worlds” that bear at least some resemblance to the social virtual worlds discussed in this study. Many of these worlds have a regional focus (e.g., Canada, Brazil, Japan, Australia), while others are more clearly thematic in nature. A significant proportion seems no longer to be in operation. Clearly, most entries on the list are not included in routine conversations about virtual worlds. We will conclude with an in-depth analysis of Second Life, which represents not only a pioneering example of a social virtual world but the platform that still sets the bar. It is worth also noting that, by necessity, journalistic, blog, and corporate sources are relied on for much of the analysis that follows. In addition, given our geographical focus, we want to comment on the extent to which these worlds are actually “mapped” worlds, as we know them. In some cases, the map looks like it can be folded and stored in a car’s glove compartment (e.g., Second Life). In other cases—actually, probably more cases—the mappable spaces can be viewed as “micro-­ geographies” showing only the immediate surroundings of the avatar. Going from place to place is a matter of “jumping around” different computer locations. Becoming “lost” in space is given a whole new meaning.

Comprehensive Social Virtual Worlds Comprehensive social virtual worlds embrace a variety of activities. They include, of course, options for avatar design. “Place” is important and virtual places remain a raison d’être for these worlds. In addition, they typically support in-world economies, probably with their own currencies, most of which are convertible to actual-world currencies. And of

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course, opportunities for in-world user creativity are plentiful, whether in terms of avatar structure and attire, place design, and/or building and scripting.

Active Worlds Active Worlds (www.activeworlds.com) is an example of one of the earliest fully configured, non-game virtual worlds. It was founded in 1995 as a spinoff of “Alpha Worlds” and remains a virtual-world option as of this writing. Active Worlds users boast about its easy, and initially free, access using relatively unsophisticated computing options. On the other hand, the default avatar is basic, certainly by contemporary standards, with a very limited number of customization and mobility options. There are 517 such worlds in the main universe (as of October 2020) that an avatar may visit, ranging from “general” to “adult” levels, and a person is encouraged to engage in building as part of the virtual-world experience. The world uses an internal “currency.” Indeed, building is relatively easy and the results can be impressive. According to EduTechWiki (2019), Active Worlds “features a flat geometry on top of which users can build with bricks, a bit like the Lego philosophy.” In an earlier (ca. 2004) post elsewhere (Virtual Worldlets, 2004), a reviewer remarked that by far the biggest draw to Active Worlds “is the allure of ‘building’.” For a while, Active Worlds was a popular destination for universities. As of 2007, there were over 80 higher education participants in the Active Worlds Educational Universe and another dozen with a built presence in Active Worlds itself, including University of California at Santa Cruz, University of Cincinnati, University of Toronto, and University College London (see ActiveWorlds, 2007, both 3/21 and 4/6). It is hard to know the extent of educational participation as of this writing, though it would seem to be much less than before. The website cited above, for example, no longer exists. Active Worlds today seems to have lost much of its prominence. In a 2016 post, the MMORPG website (see Ford, 2016) asked the question “What happens when an MMO dies but no one turns the lights off?” It

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cited the experience of a YouTube personality who entered the world and found only one person. The comment was made that “The whole thing feels like something out of a creepy pasta … The art style of Active Worlds is also slightly sinister, and there’s something inherently spooky about exploring a place that was once heavily populated.” On a related note, Emerson (2016), writing for Vice likened the world to a “virtual cemetery.” While these characterizations may be unduly harsh, it is observable that Active Worlds is not what it used to be in terms of participation. There is still an active Facebook presence (https://www.facebook.com/ groups/officialactiveworlds/, accessed 9/18/2009) that, as of this writing, listed 463 members. When Ana visited the Active Worlds administrative “world” inside the platform, a sign announced 816 active users visiting 385 worlds over the preceding 30 days. Compared to other virtual worlds, this is a small number. Ana had a Robinson Crusoe moment. Active Worlds has a history of producing cartographically appealing maps of its multiple worlds. An early and illustrative example of an Active Worlds map is provided in Fig. 2.1, which shows what is claimed to be the largest city in the Active Worlds universe. Note the predictable layout of land uses and covers. It is in this type of space that one expects to find avatars roaming about. Movement between and within worlds involves use of a coordinate system reminiscent of the latitude/longitude system in the actual world. As described by Active Worlds, “From the center of the world, the coordinates increase according to the direction that the person is moving. For example, the base coordinates can be 0N, or 0 North, and 0E, or 0 East. If you traveled due north 10 meters, the coordinates would then be 10N, or 10 meters north by 0E” (see the statement in ActiveWorlds, 2018). While there may be a single, universe-wide map available, it is not easily indicated to the user. Likewise, there is no apparent spherical world to accommodate.

The Sims Various Sims iterations have been around for some time. Early renditions can be traced to 1989, with the release of Sim City, a city-building simulation inspired by Will Wright. While it was called a “game,” nothing

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Fig. 2.1  SW City in Active Worlds. (Adapted from www.activeworlds.com SW City, circa 2007. Courtesy of Rick Noll, accessed 6-28-2021. This is SW City, the largest city (at the time) in the Active Worlds universe)

could be won or lost in the strict sense of the word. By 1992, Sim City had sold a million copies and was followed in the 1990s by other “hobby-­ style” games, not all of which achieved the level of success as that of the original Sim City. In 2000, with a new company, Electronic Arts, in control, The Sims was released (see Lucy, 2017). The point was to build a virtual house and fill it with things that you could use to support a potentially demanding virtual existence (a la Maslov’s hierarchy of human needs) by the user’s character or sim (not to be confused with the Second Life “sim”). In the words of Levin (2017), this form of virtual world was

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where people in the ‘doll house’—the sims—had a milieu of social and personal needs, including hunger, hygiene, and fun. The player could watch their sims fall in love, get married, and have children in specially-­ designed houses. They could make sure their sims had enough room and comfort to live happy lives. And when the sims’ household ran out of money (known as ‘simoleons’), the player could send their sims to work to bring home enough cash for that new sofa.

Sim City and The Sims initially were not online communities of the type defined in this study. That changed in 2002 when The Sims Online was introduced, an MMO-inspired version of the original The Sims I. For ten dollars a month, a player could create an avatar and join a world populated by other avatars. While the experience was interesting, it did not meet the expectations of players used to the original The Sims (James, 2017). In addition, a computer glitch that overpaid players led to the very real destruction of its otherwise virtual-world economy (James, 2017). The failing Sims Online was recast as a free EA Land in 2008, and shortly thereafter was shut down. In the words of The Eye (2015), The Sims Online “was not a normal video game. There were no monsters, there was no killing, and although it had some competitive elements, for many players the point was just socializing … And it was slated for virtual apocalypse.” The absence of monsters notwithstanding, Longan (2008) found a use for Sim City in helping to understand urban dynamics. In the words of Longan (2008, p. 34), A mayor who wants wealthy citizens to move into his or her city needs to encourage high-tech industry by providing numerous parks, schools, and cultural facilities. Nevertheless, one of the innovations in later versions of Sim City is the ability to influence social process by enacting ordinances, such as pollution control or subsidized health care. Fine control over tax rates introduced over tax rates introduced in Sim City 4 allows a mayor the freedom to create systems of taxation that may benefit the poor at the expense of the rich or vice versa.

Not all is so utopic in The Sims, however. Users may produce urban systems that simulate urban decay and gentrification.

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The Sims franchise outside of its online presence was a hit. As of 2016, the franchise had sold nearly $200 million in sales in 60 countries and in over 20 languages. Female players outnumbered male players, perhaps because the experience was not like a regular “game.” In 2016, the franchise was inducted into the Video Game Hall of Fame (see Levin, 2017). As of 2017, fans attempted to relaunch the online version. The Sims has always relied on community maps. The global map presentation is divided into “worlds,” with embedded “neighborhoods” and “lots.” Residents of these worlds are able to maintain and interact in mainly residential spaces (see SimsVIP 2019). The worlds have a more artistic than cartographic flavor, and are short on grid cues and other indicators of location.

There.Com New social virtual worlds began proliferating by the early 2000s, and There.com’s launch in the fall of 2003 was one of them. Like other virtual worlds, users began by selecting an avatar. The avatars had a bit of a cartoonish quality, reminding the user of what he/she might find in the Sunday papers, but fealty to a high standard of authenticity was never really the point. The purpose of the avatar was, in a sense, to “hang out,” making There.com the ultimate in social virtual worlds. Takahashi (2010) commented that the in-world experience involved “a tourist-travel fantasy world with clubs, card games, quests, virtual commerce and chat.” In addition, users could create clothes, vehicles, furnishings, and other user-­ generated content, all of which could be sold to other users for a profit in the local currency. There.com had its own economy. In its heyday, There.com arranged marketing agreements with major corporate advertisers and provided the technology for virtual worlds associated with MTV. In spite of these successes, there was insufficient consumer interest in this type of virtual world and not enough revenue to pay the bills. There.com closed in March of 2010 (see Lefebvre, 2010 and Takahashi, 2010; see also Pearce, 2010). There.com did not die a permanent death, however. It was reopened by Makena Technologies in May of 2012 and remains open—same avatars, same concept—as of this writing. A VR option is available.

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There.Com maps are intuitive and broadly encompassing of the world in which residents live. Places tend toward the “hangout” settings mentioned above and present a “fantasy” look that is consistent with the virtual world’s avatar concept.

IMVU IMVU™, introduced in 2004, is a classic example of a social virtual world. CNET (2012) described IMVU as the “world’s largest 3D Chat and Dress-Up community” that combines “the social networking power of IM chat with a 3D virtual ‘universe.’” They added that IMVU is “much more than a 3D chat room: It’s a real simulated world (or the real world, simulated). You can design, make, buy, and sell things like clothes and accessories, earn credit in IMVU’s virtual economy, and get noticed.” The IMVU site (2019) stressed that IMVU is “More than a life simulation, it’s a virtual life unto itself, where you can enter a 3D world with your avatar and choose your life as you want it to be.” Marketwatch. (2018) recently noted that: IMVU envisions a world of deepening friendships through highly connective virtual shared experiences. Instead of posting past each other on Facebook or Instagram, IMVU user interactions are hyperpersonal—the experience is similar to the fidelity of face-to-face interaction, but at a heightened level, which enables users to find a meaningful connection like in the real world.

Avatars, of course, lie at the heart of the activity. IMVU avatars are generally realistic in presentation. A large catalog—the largest catalog of all similar virtual worlds, according to the IMVU site—is available to use in customizing avatars. The overall customizability of avatars, however, including local movement capabilities, may present fewer options than in competing virtual worlds such as Second Life—that is, avatars, by default, tend to shoot from place to place rather than walk. A sufficient number of options exist to provide users with a wide array of social opportunities and interaction possibilities. In the words of IMVU’s past President,

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Brett Durrett, “IMVU is focused on people over place” (see Martindale, 2015). The name IMVU, according to Eric Ries, means nothing (see YouTube, 2012). But one should not extrapolate from his revelation that IMVU is nothing in terms of virtual worlds. Indeed, it is among the largest in terms of participation—with millions of users (IMVU, 2016; see also Marketwatch, 2018). The over 40 million items in the catalog of virtual goods serve as a basis for many millions of monthly transactions. As of 2010, IMVU had branched out to a broader emphasis on social games and entertainment (see Takahashi, 2010; see also O’Malley, 2010). In addition, as of 2015, IMVU was embarked on an exploration of the value of virtual-reality technology. Mapping in IMVU fundamentally does not exist in a global sense and reflects the emphasis on social connections and chat. The avatar may choose to locate in a variety of places, each of which is inviting in its design and purpose, but the space of which it is a part is unrelated to other spaces in a coherent global sense.

Twinity Twinity was a relative late-comer to virtual worlds, releasing its open beta in 2008. It is a pure social virtual world where people come “to carry out activities that they can do in real life, without the constraints of real space” (Twinity, 2019). This experience included touring large swaths of cities such as London, Berlin, and Singapore, each faithfully reproduced from map information (Sutor, 2010). The initial array of cities was withdrawn in 2012 and, as of this writing, Berlin, London, and Miami have been restored. According to Schultz (2018), financial pressures forced a realignment in the number of cities offered. Twinity has sites that are not intended to be city replicas. The other form of reality is the avatar. The intent was to allow the user to make his/her electronic creation as “real” as desired, including use of actual names. Particularly intriguing was the option to use a special program that would imprint a photo image of the user’s face on the avatar, and with a few adjustments to create a true doppelganger. Unlike most

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virtual worlds, working mirrors were provided so the user could see him/ herself in the world. Of course, for more adventurous souls, the picture did not have to be that of the user (Sutor, 2010). Twinity clearly has had its ups and downs since its roll-out, but it remains in operation. According to Schultz (2018), it does not come across as a widely subscribed virtual world. While the initial concept related to mapping was to reproduce actual-world spaces (e.g., Berlin), maps and all, there is currently limited evidence of a comprehensive map presentation.

Sinespace An even more recent addition to the universe of virtual worlds is Sinespace. Conceptualized as early as 2010, the world began to take shape in 2015. Sinespace was inspired by Second Life, and in fact, its creator was a prominent figure in Second-Life real estate and animation development. His purpose in creating Sinespace was to build a virtual world safe and easy for content creators to use, aesthetically attractive and accessible to users, and not locked into the dated technology of platforms such as Second Life (see Singh, 2018; Terdiman, 2018; see also Takahashi, 2018; Hypergrid Business, 2016). Indeed, a primary goal was to produce a successful adaptation of virtual-reality technology to virtual worlds. Technology is important in distinguishing Sinespace from other virtual worlds. In the words of Terdiman (2018), while there are numerous social VR projects, “no one has yet cracked the code of building a three-­ dimensional, open-ended, extensible virtual world that can handle many dozens, or even hundreds, of users in a single space. Now, Sinespace, a new metaverse project from a London-based company called Sinewave Entertainment, is seeking to be the first to offer all those features.” Terdiman (2018) added, “those with a high-end headset will be able to explore the metaverse in a first-person perspective, controlling their environment with a virtual hand-held tablet. The system does track users’ arms and heads in VR, making it more realistic” and is built to minimize nausea (a problem for some users who attempt to move around the virtual world).

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Avatars appear reasonably “authentic” and are easy to modify (including live face mapping, using third-party technology) (Takahashi, 2018). Facial expressions are elaborate. The places are aesthetic and designed well, and each new user is given a “space” that is easily editable. In addition, like most other social virtual worlds, Sinespace has a functioning internal economy. Sinespace is still new to the scene, and its user base is predictably small. As of early 2018 (Terdiman, 2018), Sinespace had about 1500 weekly users. On the other hand, the world was achieving a 20 percent week-­ over-­week growth rate. In addition, Sinespace has signed up major institutions such as the U.S.  Department of Defense, the Smithsonian, the University of Edinburgh, and Michigan State University, among others (some of whom have commissioned special “white-labeled” Sinespace worlds [Terdiman, 2018]). Mapping is present at the region level. The typical region shows a thumbnail view of the map in a corner of the screen. There is no easily accessible grid or other information related to a global presentation. It is possible to import maps from other platforms, as was done by the University of Edinburgh (see Fig. 2.2—Tate, 2017). It remains to be seen how much of a virtual-world force Sinespace becomes and if it ever truly will be anointed as the successor to Second Life. The mere existence of Sinespace indicates that contemporary social virtual worlds are perceived to have a future and are more than declining relics of past visions of virtual glory. In addition, Sinespace has received press notice and recently hosted the first major film festival hosted in a virtual world (see Au, 2020b).

Mission-Oriented Social Virtual Worlds Mission-oriented social virtual worlds have most of the resources of the comprehensive social virtual worlds, but they provide for, and direct, these resources in a more theme-oriented manner. Some observers may argue that they are in fact games, as described above, but the outcomes associated with winning and losing are less clearly defined, if they even exist.

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Fig. 2.2  Virtual University of Edinburgh and its Openvue “mini-continent” in Sinespace. (Adapted from Austin Tate’s Blog. Source: Tate, 2017. Image used with permission. For more on the virtual-world work of Austin Tate, see vue.ed.ac.uk and/or https://blog.inf.ed.ac.uk/atate/2017/09/18/sinespace-­vue/)

Entropia Universe Entropia Universe was among several major virtual worlds that appeared in the early 2000s. While some may confuse Entropia with the typical “game,” the Entropia website is clear to stipulate that it is “More than a game.” It is “The universe” (Entropia Universe, 2019). The “geography” is based on planets, each offering a different experience. Users may travel among the planets to participate in these experiences (see Mindark, 2019). The mapping of these planets is extensive, though often fanciful and unintuitive. The oldest planet, Calypso, presents a global distribution of Entropia landmasses that is superimposed on

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a Google base map of the actual world, continents and all, using what appears to be a Mercator projection. An Entropia grid system comprising equal-area cells—not a Mercator grid—is superimposed on the base map. In other words, the grid accommodations for a spherical world used in a Mercator projection are not present in the Entropia map, which suggests that the Entropia “planets” are not actually spherical for mapping purposes (see http://planetcyrene.entropiawiki.com/Location.aspx). The Entropia grid uses a latitude/longitude system to locate virtual-world landmasses (usually showing locations in meters from left-hand and bottom starting points). There is little consistency with actual-world expectations concerning latitude and longitude, whether these expectations be physical, historical, or otherwise. In the Ancient Greece world, for example, the classical city of Thrace is located in the Arctic Ocean of Russia, Troy is found near Yakutsk, in Siberia, and Sparta is close to the Falkland Islands. The map of Thrace suggests a vegetated landscape highly unlikely above the Arctic Circle. Ironically, none of the Classical Greece destinations is located in the Mediterranean basin. Once the user drills down to specific landmasses, colorful and richly detailed landscapes are revealed showing water bodies, complicated coastlines, and complex terrestrial features. On the other hand, these landscapes tend to reflect only minimal expectations regarding geographic processes, with art and fantasy taking priority over geography. As with most virtual worlds, the center of attention is the avatar. The default avatar looks quite authentic. A range of modifications is possible. Only one avatar per user is permitted as an accounting measure. Entropia Universe has a significant fantasy component, including a panoply of monsters and nonhuman critters that engage users. (Of course, even social virtual worlds such as Second Life permit residents to appear as “furries” and animal forms, so this is nothing new to social virtual worlds.) Part of the reason for being in Entropia is to engage these fantasy creatures. The mission of Entropia focuses on entertainment and money, with a particular emphasis on the latter. The economy is large and well developed. Nearly all activities in Entropia require resources and consumables that are purchased using “Peds,” the in-world currency, and “microtransactions.” Peds are earned in-world through avatar activities (mining, hunting, etc.) or sales of goods or properties, or from actual-world money

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transfers. Most resources have a shelf life and must be recharged or replaced over time—processes that require Peds. Actual-world expenditures to support in-world activities have been staggering. Early on, Entropia earned US$400,000 on the sale of five banking licenses, one of which was purchased by the early Second-Life real-estate magnate and putative in-world millionaire, Anshe Chung (Albenesius, 2007). Somewhat earlier, an in-world business owner re-financed his actual-­ world home in Miami for US$100,000 to purchase an asteroid for a nightclub, which (at least at the time of the reporting) was bringing in US$200,000 per year (Albenesius, 2007). In 2010, US$635,000 were spent to acquire pieces of the Asteroid Space Resort property, having been purchased in 2008 for US$100,000 (First Planet Company, 2010). By 2019, it was time for an in-world stock market to be established. Crystal Palace Space Station, the first company to be listed on the stock market, offered 500,000 shares, all of which were sold within 24 hours to 1077 users (Takahashi, 2019a). According to Takahashi (2019a, b, c), “Entropia Universe boasts a yearly Gross Domestic Product (GDP) of more than $400 million.” Such entrepreneurial activity has not gone unnoticed by the scholarly community (see, for example, Kieger, 2010, pp. 2–50). For some persons within Entropia, making money is not enough— only immortality will suffice (Business Wire 2018). MindArk, the Swedish-­ based company that owns Entropia Universe, is positioning its virtual world “as a potential reality where human consciousness can be inserted into virtual characters, making it possible to continue to live on as an avatar well after their human body has passed” (Business Wire 2018). Focusing on mind uploading research, then CEO of MindArk, Henrik Nel, reported that the company intended “to take the first steps towards allowing loved ones to remain around in some form even after they are gone … Entropia Universe is the prime destination for making science fiction a reality and ‘uploading’ volunteers’ brain data to allow them to live on for eternity in the online universe.” Volunteers, anyone?

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Red Light Center Red Light Center is a virtual world with a very different core mission: to provide a setting for virtually “stepping out.” Adult entertainment and the Internet have always gone hand-in-hand, and Red Light Center takes this association to a new level of sophistication. According to the Red Light Center website, this virtual world “combines out-of-this-world sexual perfection with true-to-life realism” (Red Light Center, 2019). The avatars, while looking lifelike, are basic in design and limited in modifiability compared with other major virtual worlds. These avatars, however, do one thing especially well and that is to tickle the imagination with seemingly guilt-free ventures into a highly charged sexual environment. The venue is based on Amsterdam’s Red Light district and provides richly textured destinations that include hotels, bars, clubs, and stores (Red Light Network, 2018). In addition, there are facilities to host social events, stream concerts, and accommodate workshops, classes, and even book festivals (Red Light Network, 2018). Users may also visit a lifelike replication of part of Vancouver, Canada. Red Light Center was opened in 2006 and currently has over four million users. According to Red Light Network (2018), the platform has evolved since 2006 from “an interactive 3D virtual world into a mature social networking platform” or a “fantasy pleasure dome where you can interact with real people and form real connections” (Red Light Network, 2018). The virtual world has its own currency that can be used to buy goods and services in-world. Much of the sexuality expressed in Red Light Center can be found in other virtual worlds, including Second Life, but Red Light Center may constitute the most prominent example of a growing genre among virtual worlds, the sex-themed virtual-world destination. Other examples include 3dxchat and thriXXX, although they tend to be smaller in scale than Red Light Center, and even more limited in how avatars can be manipulated and modified. The movements required to support their virtual-world themes, however, are elaborate, as are the virtual settings in which these themes are expressed. The mission notwithstanding, these

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worlds tend to have most of the characteristics described for social virtual worlds. The geography of Red Light Center is highly distributed and context driven. No global map of sites is easily accessible to users. They teleport from one setting to another without any concern for how settings are tied together as part of a global whole.

Second Life, Open Sim, and Sansar The Platforms The gold standard of social virtual worlds is clearly Second Life. Because of its prominence and relevance to this study, we offer a more expansive treatment of its settings and possibilities. As noted above, other virtual worlds incorporate into their brands aspirational language about how they are similar to, or better than, Second Life (and of course the time may come when they achieve these aspirations) (see Briscoe, 2017). There is no intent in this study to promote or otherwise endorse Second Life, but given its standing among virtual-world users and virtual-world research, it necessarily figures prominently going forward. Second Life has spawned at least two additional electronic spaces: OpenSims and Sansar. They also will be examined briefly. Philip Rosedale, the founder of Second Life and the former CEO of Linden Lab, the home corporation of Second Life, began working in 1991 on a virtual-world concept that would lead initially to Linden World and eventually to Second Life in 2003 (Rymaszewski et al., 2007). Linden Lab took its name after the company’s original location on Linden Street in San Francisco (Second Life Wiki, 2020), and employees became known as “Lindens” (as did the in-world currency). The initial conceptualization of Linden World was that of a classic “shoot-‘em-up” game, but it wasn’t long until the concept evolved to focus more on an avatar-based destination for socializing, building, and creating. The name “Second Life” made

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an important statement. According to Robin Linden,2 former Vice President of Marketing and Community Development, we decided we needed a name that would convey the expansiveness, involvement and complexity we hoped would characterize this world as it grew. We started by debating the merits of a 'place' name versus a 'descriptive' name. We believed a place name would give people a sense of destination, and possibly some added layer of meaning. And we thought a descriptive name would help people understand this new concept of a shared, 3D collaborative space …. we chose to go with a descriptive name, and looked at many derivatives of Terra, Viva, and life. We kept coming back to Life2, and then landed on Second Life as more interesting, more evocative and more what we hoped the world could become as it evolved and grew to be as big as life. (Second Life Wiki, 2020)

The “shared, 3D collaborative space” mentioned by Robin Linden came to define the open, user-generated, persistent, 3D online world that emerged. The avatar rules in Second Life. New users can choose from a variety of models, both male and female. The gender is the user’s choice, as is whether to take on a recognizable human form or something more animal-­like It does not take long, though, to discover that through the shape editor and purchases of body parts, the user can modify virtually everything about the avatar (see Rymaszewski et  al., Chapter 4). The result is a world of avatars without a “cookie-cutter” look. Movement across the landscape is easy. Walking and running look more-or-less like that in the actual world. The avatar can also “fly,” one of the more daring suspensions of disbelief required to function in Second Life. Au (2008, eBook location 79) wrote that the avatar can appear “as if pulled by heavenly puppet strings.” Long-distance travel is achieved through “teleporting” from place to place. More earth-like travel is possible, but is highly impractical given the technological options available to the avatar. In fact, a “new normal” emerges for many avatars as they scurry about using these definitely not-earth-like affordances.  The surname of “Linden” is given to the avatars of corporate employees.

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In Second Life, the avatar is known as a “resident.” This term was selected by Linden Lab to “give users a feeling of ‘belonging’ and ownership of the virtual world” (Second Life Wiki, 2010). In the words of Robin Linden (Second Life Wiki, 2010, originally posted in 2006), When it came to what to call the people in the world, we knew we didn't want to call them 'users', although that would be the most typical thing for software. However, the word 'users' doesn't do a very good job of describing the two-way nature of Second Life, where the people involved are providing content and contributing to the experience. We also thought about 'members' (boring!), 'citizens' (too political!), and 'players' (too game-y). 'Residents', however, seems most descriptive of people who have a stake in the world and how it grows.

As of October 2020, there were over 64 million residents with a mean daily concurrency level (i.e., residents in-world at a time) of about 40,000 residents (Shepherd, 2021). Several thousand people sign up for accounts every day. However, as the discrepancy between the overall population and the daily participation level indicates, only a small fraction of new residents become active adopters of a second life. Residents occupy spaces or “regions” in Second Life, generally referred to by the colloquial term “sims,” as in “running on a simulator.” The basic sim is an electronic feature that is 256 by 256 meters (the standard measurement unit) and occupies 65,536 square meters (or roughly 16 acres). A resident who buys a sim pays an initial installation fee and then is responsible for a monthly “tier” amount—basically a computer-use charge—to keep the sim active. The sim comes as a square plot that can be “terraformed” to the resident’s preferences. Terraforming is done in-­ world and involves creating hills, shorelines, beaches, water courses, vegetation—whatever the user envisions. On this terraformed land, the resident may construct streets and walkways, and build whatever structure is needed. A full region can hold up to 100 avatars simultaneously and support a “land impact” of 22,500 prims (a prim is essentially a measure of the stress placed on the computer). Other, less impactful, types of sims are also available. In many cases, a resident will subdivide the sim into plots that can be “rented out” to other residents, as in the

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case of a residential development. The renter pays an amount that goes toward the owner’s tier and has a limited land impact allowance that can be used as the renter wishes. In most cases, the owner (which can be an individual resident, a corporation, university, or other entity) may establish rules regarding how the sim is to be used. Linden Lab stipulates what can be done in “adult,” “mature,” and “general” sims (see Second Life Wiki, “Land” 2017).3 Sims or regions can be organized in multiple ways. They may exist as individual “islands,” or may be joined together as private island clusters or continents that form the “Mainland.” Island sims or regions may be connected to create “estates” that are governed by their own rules and bylaws. Universities, for example, often create multi-region estates for in-world campuses. The Mainland consists of Linden-designed (and often Linden-owned) continents that tie together multiple regions to create the largest physical units in Second Life (Second Life Wiki, “Land” 2017). Islands and continents are separated from one another by water-­ covered regions, many of which are named “seas” or “oceans.” The number of regions is large. As of October 2020, there were 24,981 regions, a slight increase over the preceding year, but down from the nearly 34,000 regions in 2008 and again in 2010 (see graph from Shepherd reproduced in Second Life Grid Survey 2020). The area occupied by these sims was about that of a moderately sized U.S. county (data from Shepherd as of October 5, 2020). Many sims have a water component along with land, and no distinction is made in these area calculations. In addition, the grid includes a number of other features (“voids”) that may increase the overall area. Second Life is in every way a business and much of the activity in the regions has a business side. Stores sell their goods to customers. Apparel, beauty products, and body adornments are especially popular, although a resident may also purchase animation overrides (AOs) to make the avatar look more natural when standing or more dramatic when acting out. At one time, major actual-world corporations had presences in Second Life,

3  As of May 2020, Linden Lab was not building new regions, in spite of a surge in requests associated with the COVID-19 pandemic. See the piece by Daniel Voyager (Voyager 2020).

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including computer companies and car manufacturers. Many regions were also occupied by colleges and universities. Designers and builders are rewarded by selling their goods to in-world consumers using “Lindens,” the currency of Second Life. As of this writing, about 250 Lindens will buy one U.S. dollar. Lindens can be converted into actual-­ world currencies. Over time, a narrative developed that Second Life was a failing virtual world—a narrative that replaced the earlier assumption that virtual worlds like Second Life would continue to grow explosively forever. While as shown above, many virtual worlds declined in participation over time (and some failed), Second Life has continued to be a business success. In the words of Frank (2017), “The in-world economy of Second Life, the one that supposedly ‘failed’ to take off, still outranks some small countries in gross domestic product”—perhaps a mildly hyperbolic statement, but we get the point. Nonetheless, in 2016, the gross domestic product of Second Life was a half-billion dollars (Frank, citing Altberg, 2017). Early on, Linden Lab determined that opening its systems to non-­ Second-­Life developers would promote a level of interoperability advantageous to virtual-world development as a whole. The result was the design of OpenSim, an open-source software that eventually was used by a variety of virtual-world developers to build specialized spaces or their own virtual worlds. Hypergrid technology is used to move from virtual world to virtual world. In the words of Kariuki (2020), OpenSim “allows people with no technical skills to quickly and cheaply create virtual worlds, and then teleport to other virtual worlds. Those with technical skills can run OpenSim worlds with their own servers for free.” The appearance of OpenSim has not been a trivial development. As of fall 2020, according to one source, OpenSim had the equivalent of thousands of standard regions (Kariuki, 2020; see also Kitely 2020). One provider of OpenSim regions called Kitely began in 2008 and currently hosts many of those regions (Kariuki, 2020). In the words of the Kitely organization, “Kitely virtual worlds have been used for training, education, collaboration, simulations, art exhibitions, machinima creation, theatrical performances, role playing, information centers, book promotions, 3D design, and entertainment activities” (see the Kitely website).

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A new social virtual world called Sansar was developed by Linden Lab (but subsequently sold in 2020—see below). Sansar was intended to be a sequel to Second Life that would take advantage of new technologies and business strategies that could not be integrated into Second Life, although Second Life was hardly being abandoned. Fink (2017) remarked that Sansar “is strikingly close to the Metaverse imagined by science fiction writer Ernest Klin in his best selling 2012 novel Ready Player One,” which Spielberg later adapted to a movie. Sansar as developed by Linden Lab embraced a different business model, one that Linden Lab hoped would be more lucrative and sustainable. According to Summers (2017), users are charged based on the number of “experiences,” or personal lots, that they request. In addition, the model involved: taking a small cut of marketplace purchases. With Sansar anyone can design and upload a virtual object—a chair, a car, anything really—and then sell it to other users. The recipient can then use it to speed-build their own experience, whether it’s a private home or a bombastic game for the public.” (Summers, 2017)

As noted by Robertson (2016), citing Altberg, Sansar is not supposed to be a headset-friendly Second-Life clone. Second Life uses the metaphor of a single, finite universe that makes money from real estate. Linden Lab was to make money from Sansar not from property taxes, but on a cut of virtual object sales. Nonetheless, the avatar remains paramount. As BusinessWire (2019) reported regarding the new avatar editor, Sansar is enabling deeper levels of immersion, creativity, and roleplay (although as of this writing, Linden Lab does not expect to include adult content in the options available to avatars). With expanded capabilities for bone deformation and blend morphing, this new feature takes self-­ expression to new heights, letting players create avatars that look as fantastic or realistic as they choose. They control who and what they are, and how they tell their story.

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On the other hand, Au (2019) recounted some of the discontent among users about the “stick-thin,” “Barbie-like” women as the default avatars in Sansar’s most recent release. How is Sansar different from Second Life? First, it is a virtual world that supports virtual reality. Frank (2017) described the experience as he spoke with then-Linden-Lab-CEO, Ebbe Altberg: When I arrived, Altberg brought me to a room with an Oculus Rift and Sansar fired up on the computer. The first virtual space we entered was a breezy outdoor basketball court in a sunny beach location. The visuals were crisp, and off to the side, music was coming from a boom box. There were also some virtual basketballs lying on the court, and I was pleased to find that I could bounce and throw them using my touch controllers.

Altberg was clear that he wanted to democratize social VR, making it easy for users to engage, design, and build in VR.  He compared Sansar to virtual worlds with the use of Wordpress for website creation (Frank, 2017). Second, Sansar is intended to enhance collaboration. Linden Lab hoped especially to make the virtual world an attractive destination for performers by offering them a larger-than-life venue for live events and entertainment “from concerts to meet-and-greets to exclusive fan quests and giveaways—while also allowing artists to reach a global audience with a single performance” (Takahashi, 2019b). Linden Lab CEO Altberg wrote about how new partnerships would bring out the very best of what VR has to offer: access, connection, and immersion (Takahashi, 2019b). Third, it appears that Sansar stepped back from Second Life’s “not-a-­ game” mantra in favor of weaving some game-like opportunities or properties into its new virtual world. In the words of BusinessWire (2019), upon entry into Sansar the user meets an artificial intelligence character who “assigns them quests that unlock rewards and help introduce new elements of the Sansar story, including other characters. As they complete more quests over time, users can level up and gain access to player-driven guilds sorted by quests, activities, and interests” (see also Au, 2019). Whether the nod toward gaming helps Sansar’s prospects remains to be seen.

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As it turns out, the Sansar technology and business model may not have been right for the time, particularly in terms of its embrace of virtual reality. Sansar was sold to the Wookey Project Corporation in March of 2020. Reasons for the divestiture apparently included the increasing cost of developing a VR-based social world at a time when VR itself was lagging in acceptance. According to Altberg, as cited in Summers (2020, p. 5/15), “it feels like VR is still where mobile was somewhere in the ‘90s.” The iPhone of VR has yet to appear, and Linden Lab probably entered the VR market before it was ready to support a platform like Sansar. Linden Lab was going to return to its more profitable core business of developing Second Life. 4 While Sansar is the child of Linden Lab, it is not the progeny of the founder of Second Life, Philip Rosedale, who earlier left Linden Lab. Indeed, at about the same time that Sansar was taking shape, so was Rosedale’s own initiative, High Fidelity. Like with Sansar, High Fidelity was building a low-lag, VR-enabled virtual world with superb avatar-­ design properties, particularly in face-to-face encounters in-world. It offered, in the words of Murphy (2014, p.20), paraphrasing Bailenson, a “social presence of a face-to-face interaction [that] can transform just about every aspect of day-to-day life.” Using VR, the experience was so close to reality that a person couldn’t help but wonder if he or she were (Murphy 2014, p. 20) “teetering close to the Uncanny Valley, the creepy feeling that an artificial human elicits in a real one when their facial expressions and movements are close enough to feel real but too awkward to be engaging.” In 2019, High Fidelity was pulled from the general consumer market in favor of a more niche-oriented mission.

4  Speaking of corporate changes, it should also be noted that Linden Lab, itself, was acquired by outside investors in July of 2020. Both Linden Research, Inc., and the new investors assured Second Life users that it would be business as usual and that the future was bright. Au (2020a) speculated that since Linden Lab has been profitable for 13 of 15 years, early investors were looking for the liquidity that a sale would provide.

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Second-Life Maps Second Life offers perhaps the most geographically satisfying portrayal of space and place among major social virtual worlds, though cartographic excellence and fidelity to geographic processes do not come across as the highest priorities. Social virtual worlds have fantasy-like veneers that are exposed in many ways, including in map design. These differences are not necessarily bad, as they highlight much of the “otherness” that make these worlds endearing, and that users of social virtual worlds have come to accept and even anticipate.

Facts and Figures In Second Life the world is a flat rectangle—less a tribute to certain Christian Medieval mapmakers and contemporary flat-earth societies than to the needs of modern computing. In a flat world, there are no annoying adjustments to size and shape of landmasses to accommodate a spherical world (Fig. 2.3). There is no need to understand “great-circle” travel routes or the exaggerated polar distances of a Mercator projection. The rectangle is divided into a grid of cells (squares) tied to a network of computers (Fig. 2.4). The cell is the essential geographic unit or building block in this flat world. Cells are located by means of grid coordinates expressed not by meters (too cumbersome) but by the shorthand of number of sims to the north, south, east, or west of the starting point. Literally the center of this flat world, and the starting point for the global grid system, is the location with the whimsical-sounding name of “Da Boom” located on the oldest sim on the oldest continent, Sansara (not to be confused with the previously discussed Sansar project). Da Boom has the coordinate of 1000/1000. The first number indicates longitude so that heading east of Da Boom will produce values higher than 1000, and west values lower than 1000. The second number indicates latitude, with higher values to the north and lower values to the south. Da Boom, in other words, represents the location of both the equator and the prime meridian, albeit on such a small territory that the user need not be concerned about the climatic variations due to latitude or accidentally

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Fig. 2.3  Major landmasses in Second Life. (Adapted from Linden Lab world map available in the typical avatar screen presentation. The names were added by the author. Some isolated peripheral sims were omitted in the interest of map clarity. The small dots are individual sims or small clusters. North is up)

slipping into a different time zone with travel across lines of longitude. Indeed, Second Life has only one time zone—all times are given in “SLT,” or “Second Life Time,” which is the same as Pacific Time in the United States.5

The Continents Up Close In Second Life, the continents are more than just outlines on the map. They come with detailed descriptions about their physical structures, their missions (if any), their history, important settlements and regional subdivisions, and other distinguishing characteristics. 5  Unless otherwise noted, all information is taken from various locations in the Second Life Wiki site already cited.

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Fig. 2.4  The continent of Sansara in Second Life. (Sansara is the central landmass in Second Life. The grid system comprising “sims” is clearly visible in this image. Modified by author to show basic map information)

The description of the continent of Corsica, for example, provides a narrative that may be reminiscent of geography’s ideographic past or on a more popular level a richly descriptive travel guide (Fig.  2.5). In the words of Linden Lab (Second Life Wiki, 2020), The continent was first developed as a French continent, since Corsica is a French island. Today, the population of the continent belongs to various nations and English is the most spoken language. It is linked East with Gaeta 5 and South with Nautilus with 3 Transcontinental Channels. It is also the continent with the largest amount of land owned by land corporations.

The description continues with an elaborate physiographic profile: Corsica is a gigantic plateau. The geographic features are: the plateau, the plains, the hills and the ocean. Corsica has no mountains. The Linden Memorial in North has its own geographical features.

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Fig. 2.5  The continent of Corsica in Second Life

The plateau is easy to recognise from its white texture. The ground is not good for agriculture, it is dried and rocky. The vast plateau has an average height of 160 meters (145 above sea level). It looks like a large plain, but the altitude is not uniform. Small altitude changes can be observed from sim to sim. The land is not very fragmented, there are no hills or valleis on the plateau. Population is low and parcels of abandoned land are easy to find. Sometimes, the land was abandoned a long time ago and it is in an advanced state of degradation, with many slopes and holes. The borders of former parcels are easy to be seen by the terraforming the old residents have made. There are no mountains in Corsica (see Mountains Of East Continents for details). However, around Temple Of The Prim (Kwaito sim and other nearby sims), plateau border has a very high declivity and creates the impression of a mountain area. A wooden trail, continued with a path, allows some access around the area. On top of the plateau, Temple Of The Prim was built. Currently, it is almost abandoned. The hills are covered with grass, with a similar texture to that of other continents. The hills are a transition from the shore to the inner plateau. Sometimes, when the plateau is very close to the ocean, the declivity is much higher and the hills look like coast mountains. This is the most populated part of the continent. Many constructions can be found close to the ocean. There are two groups of hills: one that separates the ocean from the plains (an oceanic coast) and a second that separates the plains from the

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plateau. Sometimes, these groups unite into a single one. The hills are not very high and don't have a high declivity. It is easy to build a road that climbs directly on them. The plain can be considered a lower part of the plateau. It has a green texture (a bit different from the oceanic coast). Sometimes, the plain enters deep into the continent and separates the plateau into remote hights. In these places, if there is a road nearby, population density is as high as at the seaside. However, abandoned parcels are easy to be found and are more common in places without road access. The ocean is different then it is in other continents. Water is much deeper close to the shore and the coast is higher. This is a problem for terraforming. There are polders around the coast, but usually the artificial islands are built with objects and not with terraforming instruments. The ocean floor is grey, a bit whiter then it is in Jeogeot. Sometimes, the ocean floor hosts incredible underwater gardens. Linden Memorial is a subcontinent with a rectangular shape, Linden-­ owned. It is composed of plains or low hills separated by rivers, sometimes covered with vegetation. In its center, there is a large square with a torch, surrounded by water. There are small roads that connect all parcels. In one place, there is a place full with flowers, might be considered an avatar cemetery, with a name above every flower. Central sim, also called Linden Memorial, has some unique features. Water level is low (about 6 meters, while ocean water is usually at 12 … 13 meters). There are a lot of waterfalls around the lake, created behind a few Dams, where water from the rivers flow into the inner lake. All rivers of the memorial are connected to the ocean and have the same elevage. Since they flow from the ocean to the inner lake, that means that the inner lake is in fact salt water. Inside the Linden Memorial, scripts are not allowed.

The description does not stop there. The author makes reference to elevational differences among the landforms, with the highest point of 163 meters in the Android sim. Finally, there is a transportation system that includes a road network and multiple airports.

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 ow Can “Concocted” Spaces Be Understood H in Social Virtual Worlds? Land Cover/Land Use in Concocted Spaces Every map feature in a virtual world is “concocted.” There is nothing that is “natural,” at least as we define natural in the actual world. These concoctions are clearly expressed in utter disregard for the normal processes of climate and landform creation. Why do we find snowfields next to tropical beaches shaded by palm trees? It is not because of an orographic effect (Fig. 2.4)! Second Life may insist on using lines of latitude a la the actual world to position places, but ignore the climatic implications associated with latitude. Of course, we should not forget that Second Life occupies such a small territory that the latitude/climate association is largely irrelevant; and, of particular importance, Second Life is not a tilted sphere that revolves around the sun. Who knows what is possible on a flat planet? Landforms do not fare much better. Volcanoes appear to be everywhere, many of them spewing virtual fire and lava. The result is the odd paleo landscape that puts to rest any concern for tectonic accuracy. The only plate tectonic events present are those that flow from the imaginations of programmers. Finally, the island sims themselves are distributed in a predictable pattern across the grid, adding insult to any sense of “natural” processes in play and reinforcing the concocted makeup of the worlds. Why do we find such concocted settings in social virtual worlds like Second Life? For one thing, because they are technically possible. In terms of geography, programmers have god powers and need not worry about the annoying constraints of the earthly laws of physics, and actual-world geologic and atmospheric processes. Such disregard for actual-world processes is common in video games and is consistent with Adams’ “spaces-­ in-­media” logic (Adams, 2011; see also Specht, 2018). Adams, in his review of communications geography, developed a quadrant diagram that demonstrates the dialectics of space/place and content/context (Adams p.  40). Along with “spaces-in-media,” this diagram included “media-in-places,” “media-in-spaces,” and “places-in-media.” He wrote

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about communications as a “kind of space–that is, a structured realm of interaction that both enables and constrains occupants in particular ways” (Adams, 2011, p. 46). While language itself occupied much of his discussion, he made reference to virtual places and code spaces, noting that, using the words of Dodge et al. (2009) “software can, quite literally, make space” (Adams, p. 47). This logic can be extended to include the dispersed virtual spaces and their micro-geographies described above. On the other side of the coin, however, unnatural origins may be accompanied by unnatural disasters—pull the plug and everything disappears; let the code malfunction and strange features appear in the virtual world. So back to the original question, why do we find bewilderingly irrational geographical content on some virtual-world maps? Because that is what the designers wanted and intended—maybe even without knowing it. The screen image may also be an example of “media-in-place,” to extend Adams’ analysis (Adams, 2011; see also Specht 2018), with the screen as a place that is shaped by the designer. The designer of the videogame wants to draw in the user or player to evoke a particular response— probably like Ash’s positive affective encounter (Ash, 2010)—or to create a specific feeling. Ash et al. (2009, p. 471) wrote about how the display has “its own ‘screenhood’, which is primarily its ability to capture the attention of users—an attention and disposition which, whilst being constituted technologically, works precisely because its technicity withdraws from conscious perception.” This is the “constellation of affects” that results from, and is interrelated with, the representational content of the screen described by Shaw and Warf (2009, p. 1333). We should be reminded, however, as alluded to by Jones and Osborne (2020) in their study of “postmemory” in gaming, that the designers’ intent may not land as expected with the user, given the experiences and imaginations of users. Programmer intentions do not always produce the expected responses, especially in the social virtual world with its free-for-all ethos. Finally, it is important to note that it may not be expressed intent, alone, that governs how the designer addresses the user. The designer is affected by values, attitudes, and even prejudices that may, reflexively, influence design decisions. Still referring to computer games, Adams (p. 41; see also Kitchin & Kneale, 2001) observed that they may produce a “vision of place which disguises and perpetuates the worldview of the author/artist,

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who in this case is a programmer” (Adams, p. 41). In brief, the map on the screen, however it is configured, is the product of a variety of dynamics—some intentional, others more reflexive—between the user and the designer (Fig. 2.6). What does this mean as a practical matter? A landowner in Second Life decides to build a resort. He creates a beach in a tropical paradise—palm trees, surf, straw bungalows, whales cruising in the distance. Let’s add a few active volcanoes in the distance to provide a touch of romance. Oh yes, and for those avatars who want to do something else in the afternoon, how about a mountain ski slope nearby, complete with a lodge and a lift. Finally, only beautiful people are permitted on the premises because that is what a virtual world is all about, right? The landowner creates an illogically concocted landscape because he can. He adds certain types of entertainment to capture the attention of the user and on the other side of the screen and evoke a specific response (although he may incorrectly assume that everybody likes volcanoes and whales). He even indulges a bit of prejudice about beautiful people.

Fig. 2.6  Typical “beachscape” in Second Life

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One of the hallmark land uses in Second Life (as is true in many social virtual worlds) is the tropical beach. They have been known to display active volcanoes in the distance—just like in the actual world.

Is There a Role in Social Virtual Worlds for GISc, Cartography, and “Deep” Mapping? This author was once asked if there were a place for GIS or GISc (geographic information systems or science) in social virtual worlds, no doubt thinking of the Second-Life mapping model and how its content could be analyzed? For a geographer, adapting GIS to social virtual worlds would seem to be, at least on the surface, an intuitive extension of how geographers see and analyze the actual world. While the role of GIS in understanding virtual worlds as not been completely ignored (see Sui, 2008, and even Dodge & Kitchin, 2001a), it is surprising that more has not been done. But do social virtual worlds contain geographic information? Goodchild (2010, p. 4) argued that to qualify as geographic information, “a fact must link some property to a location on or near the Earth’s surface, and possibly to a point in time or a time interval; geographic information is simply a collection of such facts.” The problem with this definition, of course, is that in a social virtual world there is a surface, but no “Earth’s surface.” While one naturally assumes that Goodchild’s focus was on terrestrial spaces, it is not unreasonable to extend the meaning of his definition to electronic surfaces, especially if they are perceived (more-­ or-­less) through a variety of cognate lenses as “equivalents” to actual-­ world counterparts. A “property” linked to a location on or near the surface is just as possible in many social virtual worlds as in the actual world. From a geodetic perspective, for example, many social worlds (e.g., Second Life, Active Worlds, Entropia) clearly intend to mimic, at least superficially, the logic of the actual world. Similarly, a “property” such as a residential structure may be linked to a virtual-world location. The extension of the definition of geographic information to social virtual worlds seems reasonable, and the use of procedures resembling those that

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are found in GIS may be helpful to understanding the inventory of items and their properties in a social virtual world. More ingenuity is required to move beyond geographic information to geographic analysis in social virtual worlds—to engage geographic information “science.” Goodchild cited the University Consortium for Geographic Information Science (1996—see Mark, 2003) in defining geographic information science as (Goodchild, 2010, p. 6) “The development and use of theories, methods, technology, and data for understanding geographic processes, relationships, and patterns.” The problem for students of virtual worlds is the expression “geographic processes” about which theories, methods, technology and data come into play. As mentioned above, geographic processes in electronic spaces can be short on recognizable counterparts in the actual world. We are reminded of Adams’ “spaces-in-media” concept which privileges the virtual-world designer to program whatever spatial processes the project desires, irrespective of actual-world processes—for example, choose to include the effects of a friction of distance … or not. GISc work in social virtual worlds is possible, but the GISc project may need to be undergirded by a different set of assumptions about space, place, and interaction. Do we really need to be bothered by a GISc for route-planning, for example, in a world where people instantly teleport from place to place? What about the role of cartography in social virtual worlds? As Goodchild noted (2010, p. 4), cartography “also deals with geographic information, but in a manner that combines the scientific with the artistic.” And it is the artistic that may suffer in an era of neogeography. That is not to say that dragons’ heads at the edge of the map or fanciful directional roses are really missed on maps, but cartographers have expressed concerns that inattention to traditional principles of map communication, including the aesthetic components, may be contributing to the “blandscapes” described by Kent (2008; see also 2005), and worse yet, may succumb to the temptations of a “post-truth” world (Kent, 2017). All is not lost, however, as Kent expressed in his new map communication model that builds on changing technologies and map-user cultures (Kent, 2018, p. 108):

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Taking technological innovations (such as the availability of software mapping tools and data) into account, it places a focus on user feedback and the enhanced dialogue between map-maker and map user in an age of social media. It is proposed that cartographers should use social media to create and disseminate good cartography, informed by user feedback. This is especially important, when more map-makers seek to make curiosity-driven maps for the purposes of entertainment at a time when the boundary between entertainment and information is blurring.

While Kent was not addressing social virtual worlds specifically, probably a majority of virtual-world presentations fall under curiosity-driven maps for the purposes of entertainment, consistent with the notion of concocted landscapes described above. Some standard cartographic conventions are pressed into service, such as white shades for snowfields, green for vegetated areas, and of course the inevitable tan sand beach. In other cases, usual practices are ignored, as for example with figure-ground relationships and label articulation. The typical Second-Life map is some combination of a land-cover base map overlain by a road atlas or, depending on the scale, the equivalent of an aerial photograph showing structures. The intent, however, is to create actual-world cognates only to the extent needed to serve a specific purpose. Perhaps it is a marketing purpose—for example, to create a beach near a residential build to encourage to locate in the residential area. Maybe in other cases there is a narrative to be served—for example, the “urban-grunge” role-play location that relies on apocalyptic landscapes to support its role play. Finally, there are situations in which cartographic decisions are made to support historical re-creations. Throughout, an aesthetic is involved in decision-making— pretty maps are better than ugly maps (see Vignette 2.1 for more on the aesthetic element). In the final analysis, these decisions are not necessarily bad and may in fact present the type of user-feedback that Kent (2018) suggested was informing map-making going forward (Vignette 2.1). We arrive, finally, to the question of whether the GIS and cartographic settings of social virtual worlds lend themselves to “deep” maps. “Thin” maps account for the basic geographic information—for example, physical features, infrastructure, population. “Deep” maps, as Harris (2016, p.  320; see also Bodenhamer et  al., 2015) observed, “interlace

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autobiography, art, narrative, folklore, stories, and memory of pace and blend these elements within the spatial context of thin maps to deepen their representation of community experiences and knowledge.” Harris added (p. 320) that “Deep maps are the stories, conversations, and lives lived out in a place and are capable of integrating multiple voices and views based on a GISc that is sensitive to the needs of communities.” Advanced technologies allow users to “become immersed in the lived world of communities” (Harris, p. 322). While Harris was referring to GISc, he could have been speaking directly to virtual-world users when he remarked that (Harris, p. 323) “Immersion is a powerful psychophysical experience that draws a user into a seemingly real but virtually rendered environment and transforms the user from passive observer to active participant.” In other words, the map and/or GISc presentation is more than a portrayal of geographic information, but a project that includes storytelling and “lives lived out in contingent space and place.” (p. 324). Harris acknowledged that operationalizing an understanding of deep mapping was problematic (Harris, p. 322), as would be the case in social virtual worlds. But the concept of deep mapping provides a more fulsome approach to the meaning of space, and most especially place, in social virtual worlds. The map of Second Life, for example, provides users with the “thin” map layer on which users build not only their structures but their avatar lives, their stories, and their communities—the elements of the “deep” map.

Chapter Summary and Conclusion We began this chapter by asking the rhetorical question, “where in the world are we?” We recall Ana’s dazed initial reaction that first day in Second Life of being “not from here,” and the eventual reassurance that she felt from being “very much from here.” In a sense, Ana’s experience serves as a metaphor to illustrate the goal of this chapter: to guide the reader through a series of explorations that help to make the unfamiliar about social virtual worlds more familiar with respect to geography, selected social virtual worlds, and their maps.

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More to the point, this chapter provided a brief overview of how conversations about social virtual worlds may be woven into larger discussions that help to define the geographer’s craft. While it is true that relatively little geographical attention has been focused on social virtual worlds, the hope was to show that these worlds should not be classified as conceptual orphans within the larger domain of geographical analysis. In addition, we looked at sample social virtual worlds—their concepts, their content, and their maps—toward the end of offering a real look at truly virtual social worlds. We ultimately focused on the role of mapping, and even GISc, in the design and presentation of social virtual worlds—their concocted landscapes, their flaws, their intent—leading to a tentative acknowledgment that virtual-world maps may offer another avenue for exploring “deep mapping.”

Vignettes Vignette 2.1 the Mappers and Their Collections Maps of social virtual worlds are not high priorities to virtual-world designers and users, but that does not signify a complete absence of people who make and enjoy maps related to these worlds. Some of the best map collections in the world find a home in Second Life. Carl Metropolitan (Fig.  2.7) was among the first actually to design maps of the grid, some of which are shown in the main text of this study. He is not a trained cartographer, but has had a lifelong love of maps of imaginary places. He believed that new people to Second Life needed maps as an educational resource. He wanted to emphasize that Second Life “was a contiguous virtual world and not just a collection of places you teleport to.”6 Today he has stepped away from actual map creation, but remains an innovator in virtual-world mapping.

6  Interview by Meryl McBride with Carl Metropolitan, January 20, 2021. Permission was granted in the interview to copy text and use pictures.

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Fig. 2.7  Carl Metropolitan, mapping pioneer, standing in his museum. (Source: Author, used with permission of Carl Metropolitan)

Juliana Lethdetter-Decuir7 is also not a trained cartographer but, like Carl Metropolitan, has had a long passion for maps (Fig.  2.8). She is founder and curator of the New Kadath Lighthouse Art Gallery. Her “art” is made up of map displays of Second Life, going back to the earliest years. When asked if she saw her displays as mainly aesthetic expressions, she responded that “I see them as a combination of aesthetic expression and historical documentation, a form of knowledge embodied.” They are still maps.

 Interviewed September 7, 2020, at her museum.

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Fig. 2.8  Globe room of the New Kadath Lighthouse. (Source: Author, used with permission of Juliana Lethdetter-Decuir (pictured))

David Rumsey (SL: Maps Darwin) has spent 40 years collecting and digitizing historic maps.8 Once again, he is not a trained cartographer, having spent his professional life in the business world; but like Carl and Juliana, his brain is wired for maps. He became especially enthusiastic for his map collecting in the late 1980s when paper maps could be turned into databases with imagery. No stranger to technology, he embraced the possibilities of GIS in the process. His collection contains more than 150,000 scanned and cataloged maps, mainly from the sixteenth century and later. He established a map center in Second Life in the hope of displaying old maps in new ways—for example, being able to walk through a globe. His collection has been relocated to Stanford University, but an elaborate build in Second Life remains (Figs. 2.9 and 2.10). David Rumsey used virtual worlds as a way of experiencing the map world unavailable in the actual world.

 Phone interview on January 21, 2021.

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Fig. 2.9  The David Rumsey facility in Second Life. (Users may tour the map displays, most of which are of actual-world historical settings, and purchase copies. Source: Author, with permission by David Rumsey. See https://www.davidrumsey. com/about/copyright-­and-­permissions for the official statement)

Fig. 2.10  New ways of presenting old globes

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Lucy, J. (2017, November 19). History of the Sims: How a major franchise evolved from city-builder to live-simulator. GAMESPOT. https://www. gamespot.com/gallery/history-­of-­the-­sims-­how-­a-­major-­franchise-­evolved-­ /2900-­1623/. Accessed 19 September 2019. Mark, D.  M. (2003). In M.  Duckham, M.  F. Goodchild, & M.  F. Worboys (Eds.), Geographic information science: Defining the field. Taylor and Francis. Marketwatch. (2018, May 9). IMVU: The leading avatar-based social network strengthens its executive team. https://www.marketwatch.com/press-­release/ imvu-­the-­leading-­avatar-­based-­social-­network-­strengthens-­its-­executive-­ team-­2018-­05-­09. Accessed 28 September 2019. Martindale, J. (2015, July 6). IMVU’s Brett Durrett on social virtual reality. Digital Trends. https://www.digitaltrends.com/computing/imvu-­social-­vr-­ virtual-­reality/. Accessed 28 September 2019. Mindark. (2019). Entropia Universe: The first virtual universe with a real cash economy. https://www.mindark.com/mindarks-­offer/entropia-­universe/. Accessed 4 October 2019. Murphy, S. (2014). The second coming New Scientist 222(2966), pp. 19–20. Nunes, M. (2006). Cyberspaces of everyday life (Vol. 19). University of Minnesota Press. O’Malley, G. (2010, September 21). Virtual world IMVU combines social gaming and avatars. MediaPost. https://www.mediapost.com/publications/article/136125/virtual-­world-­imvu-­combines-­social-­gaming-­and-­avat.html. Accessed 28 September 2019. Ondrejka, C. (2007). Collapsing geography: Second life, innovation, and the future of national power. Innovations, 2(3), 27–54. Pearce, C. (2010, March 30). In-depth: Requiem for a world. Gamasutra. gamasutra.com/view/news/118796/InDepth_Requiem_For_A_World.php. Accessed 21 September 2019. Rana, S., & Joliveau, T. (2009). NeoGeography: An extension of mainstream geography for everyone made by everyone? Journal of Location Based Services, 3(2), 75–81. Red Light Center. (n.d.). Red Light Center. https://www.redlightcenter.com/ Sites/RLC/homepage_Jul2019.aspx. Accessed 5 October 2019. Red Light Network. (2018, January 16). Red Light Center review. Red Light Network. https://redlightnetwork.net/red-­light-­center-­review/. Accessed 5 October 2019.

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3 Who Am I If I’m Not Me?

After looking at where in the world we are, we turn to issues related to who we are in the social virtual world. We know that we are avatars, but what does that mean? On Ana’s first day in Second Life, she found herself perplexed and amazed by her surroundings, but even more confounded about who she was. Yes, she had two hands and two feet—they didn’t work very well, but they made her look human—and she was crowned with a mop of system-supplied hair. But she didn’t look at all like her user or really anybody she knew in the actual world. In other words, she asked herself, “who am I if I’m not me?” She was haunted by her “being” for some time. The purpose of this chapter is to engage some of the existential issues related to who or what the avatar is. This is important. Just as the human lies at the core of any investigation into human geography, the avatar lies at the heart of our understanding of what happens in social virtual worlds. Our later discussion of virtual places compels us first to have an appreciation for the occupants of these places, our avatars, and their impacts. Girvan (2018, p. 1091) was perceptive when she wrote that “Some form of embodiment is … important in any world and our bodies are likely to shape our experience of that world.” This chapter attempts at least a foundational understanding of who the beings are that occupy and shape the experience of virtual places. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 M. L. Johnson, Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-8626-9_3

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More specifically, we are guided by the study questions listed in Chap. 1: Who are the “people,” the avatars, that populate the social virtual world? What are the “motivations” for coming into a social virtual world? How “real” is the avatar and the avatar’s setting? Can I be “myself ” as an avatar? What is meant by “presence”? Can an avatar “grow up”? Can an avatar have an effect on its user? Do avatar cultures exist?

Motivations for Entering a Virtual World What Is the Big Draw? Research suggests that people enter online worlds in response to a range of motivations. What follows is a brief review of the literature that reflects the breadth of analyses that have been conducted on why people enter social virtual worlds specifically and online worlds generally; and, to the extent that the research permits, why they stay in these worlds. Finally, as was the case with the discussion surrounding definitions in the preceding chapter, different disciplines may reflect different approaches to analysis. General trends can be identified despite the differences. Bartle (1996), who focused on MUDs, was among the earliest writers on user types and their motivations. While his focus was on gaming, he contended that “MUDs can be of considerable value in non-game (i.e., ‘serious’) applications” (Bartle, 1996). He proposed four player types: achievers—users who gather points and look to rise in status within the MUD; explorers—users who want to understand how things work within the MUD; socializers—users who enjoy the company of other users; and imposers or “killers”—counter-cultural types who find a thrill in destructive acts. There is a question about the degree to which these player types can be used to explain motivations behind participation in more “serious” virtual-world settings, but they do provide a taxonomic starting point that should be acknowledged in the study of motivations. Indeed, his taxonomy was described at a time when 3-D social virtual worlds were still mainly subjects of novels and their imaginative authors.

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In terms of online worlds in general, Yee (2005, 2006), building on Bartle (1996), proposed an empirical model of player motivations for massively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPGS) in general and offered an early classification structure based on a principal-­ components analysis that clustered 40 questions answered by 3000 respondents into 10 components. These components were then subjected to a second principal-components analysis that yielded three main components. The results were revealing. The Achievement component suggested more of a gamer’s response, focusing on gaining power, progressing rapidly, acquiring in-game wealth, optimizing character performance, and competing with others. The Social component focused on helping and chatting with other users, forming meaningful relationships, and working with others in groups. The final component, Immersion, was the closest to a fantasy component. It involved attempts at role-playing, creating improvised stories, finding and knowing things most users don’t know about, escapism, and customizing the appearance of the avatar (Yee, 2006, p. 773). Male players were more inclined toward the achievement, and females the relationship, motivations. Escapism was important to a large number of players. While Yee did not address social virtual worlds directly, he provided an important starting point for understanding the motivations of users in these parallel electronic spaces. A later study by Zhou et al. (2011) focused squarely on virtual worlds and revealed similar themes. After interviewing 188 Second-Life residents from around the world and processing these interviews using content analysis, they identified three motivational categories: functional— accomplishing pre-determined self-referent goals, such as learning, doing research, helping with education, making money, conducting business, and creating goods; experiential—using Second Life for the experience itself, such as exploring, playing, escaping the actual world, doing what they cannot do in the actual world, trying out different identities, and overcoming boredom and loneliness; and social—meeting and interacting with people, maintaining relationships with existing social networks in the actual world, dancing, enjoying clubs, looking for romance, and perhaps even participating in cybersex (Zhou et al., 2011, pp. 265–266). Overall, they wrote, “individuals respond differently to SVWs [social

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virtual worlds] according to their psychological needs” (Zhou et al., 2011, p. 268). One of the more comprehensive analyses of user motivations was completed by Hassouneh and Brengman (2014). Their focus was on social virtual worlds (conceptualized in a manner roughly similar to the definitions examined in Chap. 1), with the intent of building a motivation-­ based typology of social virtual-world users. They began with a qualitative analysis of 20 active Second-Life users who listed motivations that included (2014, p.  332) socializing, fun-seeking/gratification/relaxing, real-life purpose, role-playing, compensation seeking, and free self-expression (Hassouneh & Brengman, 2014, p. 333). Their qualitative analysis was followed by an elaborate quantitative examination of survey data involving 455 qualifying respondents and 31 usable statements evaluated by means of a five-point Likert scale. Exploratory factor analyses and related procedures led to a seven-cluster solution of interpretable results about motivations that included (Hassouneh & Brengman, 2014, pp. 335–336) role players—the largest cluster, comprising users who wanted to be somebody different, who were relatively young and equally male and female, although about 10 percent of the former and 4 percent of the latter crossed genders; relationship seekers—the second-largest cluster, heavy users of Second Life who sought actual-world partners and/or love; manipulators—the third-largest cluster comprising mainly males with unwholesome intentions; achievement seekers—the money-makers, often female; friendship seekers—mainly the “hang-out” crowd interested in close friends and good conversations, largely female; uninvolved—mainly males with a single avatar who really did not participate; and escapists—users with actual-world stresses that they were trying to manage or avoid. Each of these clusters, regardless of its standing in overall popularity in this analysis, was important in understanding the motivations that caused people to become virtual-world users, and said much about the profile of users in-world. Similar findings have been produced in other studies. Shelton (2010) took a more business-oriented approach to user motivations, including fantasy—doing things not possible in the actual world; customization— as in designing an avatar; role-playing—improvisational theater, of sorts; relationships with other users; socialization—interacting with friends

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and family, learning about others in-world; escapism—avoiding thinking about actual-world problems; relaxation; advancement/challenge—personal accomplishment of some form; and competition with other users. Jung and Kang (2010), looking at goals among 54 users of There (see Chap. 1), created a list that included social relations—interaction, attending events, chatting, and dating; amusement—relaxation, gaming, movies, dancing, hanging out; creating—creating objects, and decorating avatars and their spaces; technological features—interest in three-­ dimensional environments, communication tools, development of human-like avatars; escapism; exploring; knowledge acquisition— research, skills development; and financial—running a business and making money. Verhagen et al. (2012) advocated for the consideration of “extrinsic” and “intrinsic” motivations as influences on virtual-world use (focusing on Second Life), with “perceived usefulness” the surrogate category for “extrinsic” and “entertainment value” for “intrinsic.” Like other surveys, they employed a questionnaire, in their case yielding 846 responses. They observed that of the specific drivers examined—economic value, ease of use, escapism, and visual attractiveness—escapism seemed to be the strongest extrinsic motivational influence (and actually the strongest of all), with visual attractiveness playing the most important intrinsic role. It should be recognized that each of the four drivers played some role in both extrinsic and intrinsic, with the exception of visual attractiveness, which served little extrinsic function as a driver. Using a somewhat different approach focused on Maslow’s higher order of needs (belonging, esteem, and self-actualization), Barnes and Pressey (2011) presented an exploratory study in which they attempted to understand the factors that drive individuals’ higher-order human needs in terms of virtual worlds, focusing on Second Life (2011, p. 254). They identified drivers that included characteristics of the virtual world that related to an individual’s experience in a virtual world, focusing on arousal and pleasure; personality characteristics, including measures of individualism—need for achievement, competitiveness, superficial relationships, and confidence—and affinity for technology—the degree to which a person is attracted to, and willing to learn about, new technology; channel interaction—a user’s length of time in-world and his/her intensity of usage; and demographic criteria, that focused on gender, age,

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and level of education (Barnes & Pressey, 2011, pp.  239–240). They employed a 7-point, 30-item, survey in Second Life (using avatar “bots”) that yielded 404 useable responses. Their answer to the question of what drives higher-order needs in the context of a virtual world like Second Life indicated that arousal, pleasure, and individualism were “particularly important in helping individuals to meet their goals in virtual world settings and should be borne in mind when designing virtual world experiences” (Barnes & Pressey, 2011, p.  245). They added that users were clearly attempting to satisfy needs through their participation in virtual-­ world settings. Slightly later in time, Nagy and Koles (2016) reinforced the importance of Maslow in their look at the motivational attributes of “creator” and “non-creator” residents—that is, those persons who do, or do not, engage in the production of online goods, services, and information, focusing on virtual worlds (Nagy & Koles, 2016, p. 2). Their analysis was based on a sample of 427  Second-Life residents who responded to a 29-item survey using a 5-point Likert scale. Motivations were evaluated using four dimensions or categories of information, including belonging, self-esteem, self-actualization, and escapism. Added to these categories were utilitarian attributes that targeted economic and aesthetic parts of Second Life and included perceived ease of use and visual attractiveness (Nagy & Koles, 2016, pp.  8–9). The authors saw self-actualization as “being the most dominant motivator, followed by esteem, belonging, and finally escapism. Visual attractiveness appeared to be rated as an important feature of Second Life. The economic value of this virtual setting was viewed with average importance, with similar mid-range reports concerning the perceived ease of use” (Nagy & Koles, 2016, p. 10). As an aside, the authors found that, contrary to other studies, male users in Second Life were more likely to engage in content-creation than females. Age also played a role. Older users, those over 35, appeared more inclined to become content creators, while younger users apparently chose to refrain from Second-Life activities that required deeper and more intense engagements and understanding (Nagy & Koles, 2016, pp. 12–13). Two other relatively recent studies help to understand the breadth of work done on user motivations. In 2016, Merrick devoted a book chapter on player types and motivation from a more cognitive perspective,

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looking at online worlds in general. Merrick called on three incentive-­ based theories of motivation focusing on achievement, affiliation, and power motivational drivers. Merrick built on the earlier work by Bartle, Yee, and Boellstorff to devise a graphic presentation of motivations with a vertical axis anchored by “interest in acting” at the top and “interest in interacting” at the bottom. The horizontal axis included “interest in other players” on the left and “interest in the world” on the right. The left-hand side of the graph included power- and affiliation-motivated users, whereas the right-hand side was dominated by achievers (Merrick, 2016, p. 17). A recent effort by Polish economist Hofman-Kohlmeyer (2019, p. 130) involved 22 in-depth interviews with Polish users of The Sims, Second Life, and Euro Truck Simulator (which allows users to impersonate a truck driver and modify the truck in individual ways and even set up a trucking company). Respondents were asked why they joined virtual worlds. The most common response was curiosity, influenced by exposure to the media, interacting with other people, and a desire to see or do things unattainable in the actual world (Hofman-Kohlmeyer, 2019, pp.  134–135). The author divided the responses among Zhou et  al.’s functional, experiential, and social motives, observing that the most numerous group was experiential in the broadest sense: ability to control life, decorating space, recreation, developing a character, opportunity to do things unattainable in the actual world, exploring, graphic design opportunities, building and creating, and a “feeling of reality.” The second-­largest group reflected functional motives: earning money, participation in educational opportunities, in-world work, and development of language skills. Finally, the social motivations accounted for a small number of respondents—users who were responding to invitations from friends (Hofman-Kohlmeyer, 2019, p. 135). Finally, maybe the user just doesn’t like his or her actual life. A growing body of literature has focused on the psychological context that motivates people to engage virtual worlds (and in a larger sense, gaming). Franklin and Swan (2015) provided a psychological profile and presented treatment options for a single adult female who spent what appeared to be an inordinate amount of time in Second Life. The subject came from extraordinarily difficult actual-world circumstances and was using the virtual world to create a life that allowed her to escape these circumstances

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(p. 486). In other words, her motivation for entering the virtual world was to provide a coping strategy for dissatisfaction in her actual world. In terms of satisfaction (or lack thereof ), Castronova and Wagner (2011) performed a detailed empirical analysis that examined how conditions of life in virtual places compare with those in the actual world. Their findings included, among other things, that those respondents who were unemployed, angry, and sad seemed “to gain considerably from the transition to Second Life from real life” (p. 323). Some people, they argued further, may be motivated to find refuge in a virtual world rather than change their lives in the actual world (p. 324). They concluded by commenting that, at least for some individuals, “The effect of virtual environments on life satisfaction and behavior seems to be rather significant” (p. 325). In other words, the dominant motivation for being in-world is a lack of satisfaction with circumstances in the actual world—escapism, compensation? Perhaps the psychological motivation rests less on the desire to escape the physical world than to explore the inner recesses of the psyche. Covadanga Writer (2009), which is the name of a Second-Life resident, wrote a brief but interesting take on how a person may use Carl Jung,1 the eminent early twentieth-century psychiatrist, to understand why people go into virtual worlds. While resisting the temptation to wade too deeply into waters that this author (and most geographers, by the way) may wish to avoid, Writer pointed out that worlds like Second Life offer users the ability to engage psychic dispositions that may not be conscious or understood in everyday existence. The Shadow archetype, for example, contains the dark side, the mystery, the heroic “I” with no limits—pieces of ourselves that we may deny to ourselves but inevitably project on others. If a user’s avatar does not look or act like the user, especially in terms of its comportment, then the user may have found a way to engage the Shadow. Or perhaps it is the Soul archetype that is at work. A man may confront his “anima,” his female soul opposite, in his electronic incarnation as a woman, perhaps as an avatar who is a pole dancer or annoying hag. A woman may find her “animus,” her male soul opposite, as the 1  A standard “go-to” source is Carl Gustav Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections (New York: Vintage Books), 1962. With Aniela Jaffé. Revised in 1989.

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stereotypical sexy guy with six-pack abs. Complete revelation of the self requires a process of “individuation”—recognizing and understanding the constituent parts of the psyche. Suddenly a motivation for building an avatar is to pull ourselves together. While understanding motivations may be influenced by disciplinary points of view, there are certain reoccurring themes from which essences can be distilled. Relying heavily on Yee (2006), Zhou et  al. (2011), Hassouneh and Brengman (2014), and Nagy and Koles (2016), we attempt to synthesize the research described above, as follows: • Curiosity: It would appear that for many first-time users, curiosity is important. Curiosity may explain why so many users in Second Life sign up and then leave. While it is true that only Hofman-Kohlmeyer (2019) gave more than passing reference to curiosity, it is likely that other references to “exploring” (Bartle, 1996; Jung & Kang, 2010; Zhou et al., 2011) reflect the same interests as curiosity. • Immersion: The term immersion suggests an in-world presence in the social virtual world that is separate and apart from the actual world (see below in the discussion of identity and presence). The reasons may be varied: role-playing, creating a different “you,” enacting a life style that is not compatible with actual-world circumstances, escapism, or simply chasing a dream. In some form, role play is commonly referred to in the literature as a motivational force. • Personal interaction/re-creation: Interaction in the form of meeting other people, at least initially in their avatar incarnations, and potentially establishing relationships with them is an important reason for many users to enter a social virtual world. A question that may arise, which relates to the immersion motivation, is with whom is the relationship—with the avatar as performed by the user or the user? In addition, interaction often occurs in social venues such as clubs, in-­ world games, parties, and a variety of other settings. Recreation can be private, of course, as when attending a concert or sitting on a beach reading a book. • Business/improvement: This category makes direct reference to Zhou et al.’s (2011) “functional” component, the pre-determined s­ elf-­referent goals that include establishing a business, participating in an educa-

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tional activity, or doing research. In the early days of Second Life, this motivation was especially powerful and contributed to the “hype” that accompanied the virtual-world experience. • Creativity: Being creative may help the user make money, but in many instances creativity is pursued for its own sake. This creativity may take the form of building an avatar to perfection (as defined by the user), designing a home’s interior, or participating in a dance group. Creativity fits into Zhou et al.’s (2011) “experiential” category particularly well. • Therapy/well-being: A relatively hidden motivation in the studies examined above is the prospect of personal improvement or therapy. Once again, Zhou et al.’s (2011) “experiential” category may offer the best fit for this motivation, although the “escapist” conversation mentioned by several researchers may also be relevant—that is, the benefit that accrues from simply getting away from it all in the actual world. As is discussed below therapy may include an in-world activity that offers benefits to the user in his/her actual world. Motivations should be expected to overlap. A person may express curiosity about a virtual world, but the curiosity may be a response to a social need or a business possibility. An actual-world man who desires to express his heretofore concealed actual-world homosexuality may be motivated by the prospect of immersion to avoid complicating actual-world relationships, whereas another man may simply be interested in experimenting, perhaps a role-play motive, without being concerned about the possibility of disclosure in the actual world. Motivations may vary based on gender. Yee (2006, p. 774) wrote that males scored high on achievement-related motivations, whereas females were high in terms of relationship and friendship motivations. Further analysis led Yee to qualify his findings by asserting that “male players socialize just as much as female players, but are looking for very different things in those relationships” (Yee, 2006, p. 774). Similarly, Zhou et al. (2011, p.  268) noted that male users were particularly inclined to be motivated by making money, whereas female users focused more on shopping and exploring. On the other hand, Hassouneh and Brengman’s (2014, p.  337) research suggested caution in understating the role of females in responding to achievement motivations: “quite a lot of these

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‘Achievement Seekers’ are female. Females seem to enjoy the fact that they can easily create their own virtual business, be powerful in-world, make money, and compete with their creations.” Nagy and Koles’ (2016, p. 12) findings tended to blur gender-based motivations: “Contrary to expectations, male Second Life residents participating in our study were more likely to engage in UGC [user-generated content] practices than female residents.” If this can be considered an achievement-oriented activity, it may not be so contrary to expectations. The research suggests that over-generalization of gender roles may be risky. Age and education may play a role. Zhou et al. (2011, p. 268) remarked that younger users were more likely to see Second Life as an entertainment opportunity, whereas older users were more motivated to go in-world for creative and educational purposes. In addition, more educated users paid greater attention to the functional values of social virtual worlds for research and education. Hassouneh and Brengman (2014, pp. 335–336) found that many of the “escapists” in their study were older, as were the achievement seekers; whereas the role players tended to be younger, as were mischievous males. Nagy and Koles (2016, p. 13) tended to confirm a greater industriousness of an older (in their case, past 35) user, noting that “While younger individuals may be more at ease in terms of navigating various Internet-based platforms and of handling the complexities of 3D virtual worlds on a superficial level, they may choose to refrain from those activities that require deeper and more intense engagements, and understanding.” In other words, being a digital native is not everything. Finally, to build on a point made at the top, probably too little has been written about motivations for staying in (as opposed to entering) the virtual world. Curiosity may be the most important motivation for entering a virtual world, and in that sense Hofman-Kohlmeyer’s (2019, p. 135) findings were especially helpful, but other motivations may take over once the novelty has worn off.

What the Surveys Say Questions in the surveys were designed to reflect the motivations described above. Respondents were asked to identify the single

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motivation that was most important to their decision to enter Second Life, followed by the motivation that was most important for staying in Second Life (Table 3.1). Nearly two-thirds of respondents entered Second Life out of some combination of curiosity (23.6 percent), a wish to express personal creativity of some sort (20.8 percent), or a desire to engage in educational or research activities (19.4 percent). A close fourth motivation was to explore some part of the user’s personality not expressed in the actual world (15.3 percent). The majority of respondents remained in Second Life because of friendships (31.5 percent) or the wish to express personal creativity (30.1 percent); a distant third motivation was to engage in educational or research activities. How did motivations shift over time? Curiosity about Second Life disappeared after entering the virtual world—no surprise. Friendships almost trebled in importance (plus 20.4 points). Percentage increases also occurred for personal creativity (plus 9.3 points) and the desire to “get away from it all” in the actual world (plus 4.0 points). The remaining motivations decreased or remained steady in respondent percentages. In brief, the questionnaire data suggested a maturation process over time that emphasized friendships, personal creativity, and chilling out. It is important to reiterate that asking respondents to identify a single motivation did not catch the full range of reasons why a person entered, and remained in, a social virtual world, and it took the focus-group and key-informant responses to flesh out the motivations. Curiosity was clearly the gateway motivation, although it occasionally took more than Table 3.1  The most important reason for entering and remaining in Second Life The most important reason for entering/remaining in Second Life Curiosity about what Second Life is all about Desire to explore some part of the user’s personality not expressed in the actual world Desire to create/strengthen friendships Wish to express personal creativity Need or desire to “get away from it all” in the actual world Desire to use Second Life as form of therapy Desire to find and/or pursue business opportunities Desire to engage in educational or research activities

Enter Remain 23.6 15.3

0 11.0

11.1 20.8 4.2 4.2 1.4 19.4

31.5 30.1 8.2 4.1 1.4 13.7

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one trip through the gate for the curiosity to be satisfied. Jo Yardley2 of the 1920s’ Berlin role-play sim remarked that she heard about Second Life and3: became curious. I tried it, hated it, left. … A year or so later I tried again but only to test limits of a new computer … I hated it the second time as well but just before I left I figured out the search option … and then I started to look and find places that I like … I found a few history & vintage related places, started to chat to people, listen to music and find places that looked nice … then I was hooked.

She eventually developed one of the most admired historical role-play/ education sims in Second Life. One focus-group participant of the Spirit Light Dance Company was equally unimpressed at the beginning: “I was curious. When I got here, it was so unstructured that I looked around then left for four months before making a second visit. … Then I came back with lower expectations … and then like an onion, I began to see the layers.” Curiosity for most other users took control from the first day. Key-informant Rosie Gray of the CDS remarked that “I tried it out just out of curiosity … I kept coming back.” Key-informant ZenMondo Wormser of the Star Wars sims was enticed by a friend’s pictures of her Second-Life adventures. While waiting for delivery of some other video software, he decided that “I would try out this Second Life thing. I got hooked so fast.” While curiosity was the gateway motivation, friendship and social contact (personal interaction) kept people hooked. In some cases, respondents followed friends into Second Life. Key-informant Aldo Stern wrote that he had been part of another online social group when his friends decided to relocate to Second Life and he decided to follow them to remain in contact. In the meantime, he became very attached to his virtual-­world home. A focus-group participant described her situation as “I came out of curiosity as I worked for a computer game magazine at this 2  Only avatar names are used in these and subsequent key-informant analyses. A greater degree of confidentiality was extended to focus-group participants. In the latter case, no names were used and an effort was made to minimize identifying information. 3  Readability editing was done by the author on quotations to correct obvious typographical errors.

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time but as I liked it here I stayed … first exploring but soon it was because I like to make friends from all over the world.” Another focus-­ group member wrote that “The friendships and community are another very big motivation to stay here.” The importance of friendships and social contacts figured into the conversations of five of six focus groups. Creativity was on par with friendships as a key motivational factor both for key-informant and focus-group interviewees. Cat, a key informant and the founder and manager of one of the residential areas, remarked that a magazine article: intrigued me enough to lead to the creation of my account. Unfortunately, during my very first log in session I didn’t encounter even one single person, only signs and freebie boxes. Since connecting with people is most important to me, I logged off and completely forgot about SL! One year later, I read another article, this one about community and the arts in Second Life, so I gave it a second change and almost immediately stumbled upon a wealth of both community and artistic opportunities.

Key-informant ZenMondo Wormser wrote that “What got me to stay in Second Life was the unlimited potential for creativity and I soon started writing scripts as a way to earn some Linden Dollars.” He eventually took his skills to the Star Wars sims. Creative potential need not be related to scripting and building. A focus-group participant wrote that “I came into SL to further my writing of erotic bedtime stories. Over time, I still do that but was able to explore much more about everything the world has to offer and dive deeper and darker for my stories I write for RL.” Sudane Erato, a major real-estate developer in Second Life, observed how she was involved with TV and modern dance in the 1970s, particularly creating “spaces” on the TV screen. She engaged online worlds early on and proceeded to expand “TV space into ‘real’ 3D.” Rosie Gray found excitement in building in SL and “making medieval style hats.” About half of focus-group respondents made some reference to the opportunity to build or to express creativity in some way. In the case of the Spirit Light Dance Company, it was all about artistic expression—no surprise here— which included set design.

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Education and creativity were companion motivations. Preparing classes in a virtual-world setting not only required adapting the peculiarities of the virtual world to the teaching environment but invited creating innovative pedagogical uses for the scripting and three-dimensional modeling capabilities of a social virtual world. Whole organizations in Second Life and other virtual worlds are dedicated to this task and have been a motivation for entering a virtual world. An anonymous key informant, an active educator in Second Life and other virtual worlds, was asked what motivated her to enter SL: “the compelling reason was to participate in an education group’s events.” A focus-group participant, an actual-world educator, remarked that “I came in with my supervisor to check out educational opportunities. But then I discovered the ability to be so creative in here.” Key-informant Aldo Stern, active in a late eighteenth-century-­ themed European sim, noted that the virtual world allowed participants to create an immersive laboratory in which they could sense and experience a period in history. He called it “role-play light” in the sense that immersion involved acting in an authentically scripted and built environment—one faithful to the events of the time—which would have been much more difficult to produce in an actual-world setting. Through this process, and by means of subsequent discussions and exhibits, information was shared and learning was achieved. A similar effect was created in the 1920s Berlin sims in which a participant learns history by experiencing it. One member of the community emphasized that “we try to be historically accurate, that’s the plus.” While curiosity, friendship, and creativity figured prominently as key motivations for entering, and remaining in, Second Life, interview responses suggest that the role of personal needs may be understated in the questionnaire data. One of the most prominent advocates for the use of social virtual worlds to meet the needs of people with disabilities was key-formant Gentle Heron, founder of the Virtual Abilities group. Her motivation involved more than just curiosity: I came in with 2 friends from another (web)site group. We were all looking for more ways to have a life outside our homes/rooms, as we were all disabled. And one of our members (not me) had investigated the few VWs that existed and determined that SL was the most lively and developed on.

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So we came in together. … And yes, the desire for a fuller life still motivates me.

One of the focus-group respondents wrote that she “came in to try and overcome some social shyness.” When asked if it worked, she proclaimed: “yes … brilliantly.” Another focus-group participant revealed how “I was taking care of my Mom and also working full time, so SL was a way of getting out and having adventures and meeting people that was not available to me in RL.” In brief, the data on motivations are consistent with the possibilities described above regarding why people enter, and remain in, social virtual worlds. In fairness, however, additional work is needed on motivational assemblages since, as the interview data reveal, the motivational profiles can be multifaceted based on the unique needs and interests of the individual user.

 Little Matter of “Reality”: If They Are A Virtual, Can They Be Real? Ana and JT both feel very “real” when they are in-world. It is a strange experience, because they know that, for many people, bundles of pixels aren’t supposed to feel anything, certainly nothing “real.” The worst naysayers may see avatars as the equivalent of comic-book characters inhabiting fantasy lands that should be treated more as figments of science fiction than subjects of science investigation. This is a complex question: how “real” are our avatars and the communities that they inhabit? The literature indicates that for many of us the “virtual” is more “real” than we may think. Comments about what is “real” have taken a variety of forms. Early on, Turkle (1994, p. 165; see also Turkle 1997) wrote that “Virtual reality is not real, but it has a relationship to the real. By being betwixt and between, it becomes a play space for thinking about the real world.” She went on to channel Vonnegut by saying that you are who you pretend to be, suggesting that a virtual

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existence is more than mere whimsy or fantasy.4 Fedeli (2016, p.  83) wrote that “Second Life is a world that is felt to be real when the participant, in his/her avatar, experiences physical sensations and emotions evoked by lived experiences.” The participant experiences pleasure and satisfaction that are “real,” if “other.” Writing about virtuality in more general terms, Kinsley (2014, p. 376) argued in favor of “the very material nature of the constituents of an apparently ‘virtual’ milieu.” Wardle echoed a general sentiment that if you want to know who you really are, try a virtual role that is not you (Wardle, 2016, 59). Boellstorff concluded, referring to a common academic response to, if not reluctance about, virtual-worlds research, that “It is unsurprising that we would feel anxiety about the value of studying virtual worlds if we assume, from the outset and without a shred of evidence, that they are not ‘real’” (Boellstorff, 2015a, b, p. 2). Castronova and Wagner (2011) commented that virtual lives can take on as much meaning as actual-world lives, adding that “the term ‘real life’ is increasingly used in an ironic sense, referring only to experiences that occur offline, not to experiences that partake of more genuineness, actuality, significance, or reality than those that occur online. ‘Real life’ and ‘virtual life’ are not different in meaning, only in the location of events” (p.  313). As if to supply an early precedent to Castronova and Wagner, Webb (2001, p. 590), building on Zizek (1993), concluded that (Fig. 3.1) however many identity changes undertaken in avatar culture, virtual worlds often turn out to be nothing more than humdrum variations of our own, with both virtual and “real” being a semblance of a true reality. As Zizek points out, “true, the computer-generated ‘virtual reality’ is a semblance, as it does foreclose the Real; but what we experience as the ‘true, hard, external reality’, is based on exactly the same exclusion … by the mirage of ‘virtual reality’, the ‘true’ reality itself is posited as a semblance of itself, as a pure symbolic edifice’.

Some of the most incisive and helpful observations about the meaning of “real” related to virtual worlds (and any digital space, actually) come 4  Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., wrote “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” Found in Mother Night (1999).

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Fig. 3.1  A matter of avatar “reality”. (So, who is “real” in this photo? Ever thought that it might be the person in the middle? Picture of “author(s)” by “author(s).”)

from the anthropologist Tom Boellstorff (2008, 2015a, preface; 2016). He reminded us that as we contemplate the potentially anxiety-inducing prospect of being “virtually real,” we should be careful how we separate “virtual” from “real.” It is a false opposition that is detrimental in that it: obscures all of the ways in which the virtual is in fact real … you can educate someone in a virtual world and that knowledge transfers into the physical world; you can fall in love in a virtual world and those emotions can have consequences in the physical world, and so on. As with any other aspect of digital culture, from email to social network sites and online games, reality is not unique to either the virtual or physical. Although virtual world residents sometimes colloquially use the phrase ‘in real life,’ they usually mean roleplaying or gaming, not that virtual worlds themselves cannot be real.” (2015a, b, preface)

He then posed the question why study virtual worlds if they are not real (2015a, b, preface)? But it is just as detrimental to go the other way, to assume that everything physical must be real. Often “real” is assumed to be anything “physical” or “offline” (2015a, b, preface), which, while

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convenient, may be misleading. Boellstorff called us to task on how the ways in which we comport ourselves in the physical world may be no less “unreal” than assumptions made about the virtual world. To what extent is it “real” when the child dresses in a Halloween costume? What about dreams? What about the social interaction in which a person puts on his “party face”? Is that “real” really? Boellstorff clarified his thinking using a box containing four quadrants (his “digital reality matrix”—2014, 2015a, preface; 2015b, 2016, p. 388). These quadrants include spaces representing: (a) the physical and real, (b) the digital and real, (c) the physical and unreal, and d) the digital and unreal. He sought to redirect the conversation from a “zero-sum continuum” dominated by a) the physical and real and d) the digital and unreal (2016, pp.  387–388), to a broader accounting of the full (and often ignored) range of possibilities presented to virtual-worlds users. Yes, it is possible to be both “digital” and “real” (quadrant “b”), and to feel “real” in a virtual world. Boellstorff (2015a, b, preface) added poignancy to his message by recounting the story of an elderly woman in Second Life who struggled with Parkinson’s disease in her actual life. In her virtual existence there was no such struggle. She described her avatar as who she was. On the other hand, she did not deny the affliction affecting her physical body. Both bodies were “real,” just in their own ways. Time and again, she insisted that Second Life was as “real” as the real world, perhaps even more real than her actual world. Boellstorff (2015a, b, preface) emphasized that the woman’s physical body, with its afflictions, and her avatar body, which admittedly was a younger and idealized version of her actual body, were both aspects of reality: “The avatar body made it possible to wear a ball gown to a virtual ball—on occasion, to be asked to dance by young men who might not have taken the time to get to know [her] had they met her only in the physical world.” This woman, like many other men and women in virtual worlds, found it possible to be both digital and real.

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Multiple Shades of Identity and Presence Being “real” in the actual world is tough stuff. On its face, being “real” in a social virtual world can be easier. Unlike in the actual world, the sneering “you” does not have to look into the mirror while you squeeze into a pair of pants that you are sure “fits,” or apply the anti-wrinkle cream that works mainly to smooth the wrinkles in your ego. In other ways, however, being “real” in a social virtual world can be tougher than in the actual world. The avatar that the user creates may be shaped not only by the user’s outward identity but also by those facets that are hidden from public view. In other words, the avatar may become a vehicle for expressing multiple shades of identity. What follows is an examination of the broader themes associated with “identity” in virtual worlds, focusing on the self, embodiment, presence, community, and their feedback loops. Once again, we rely on literature from disciplines other than geography, including arts and media (Wardle, 2016), psychology (Suler, 2002; Garvey, 2010a, b; Gilbert et al., 2014; Evans, 2011, 2016a; Koles & Nagy, 2012; Triberti et al., 2017), communications and information technology/systems (T. L. Taylor, 2002; Webb, 2001; Bardzell & Odom, 2008; Peachey & Childs, 2011; Martey & Consalvo, 2011; Schultze & Leahy, 2009; Veerapen, 2011; Jin, 2010a), anthropology (Boellstorff, 2008, 2015a, b, 2016; Aurilio, 2010); sociology (Turkle, 1994, 1997; Gottschalk, 2010), education (Childs, 2011; Fedeli, 2016; Kuznetcova et  al., 2018; Girvan, 2018), with occasional forays by others from other disciplines (Apter, 2008 [French]; Scott, 2011 [religion]; Rak, 2009 [history/English]. It is noteworthy that, as discussed above, geography is relatively under-represented among the conversations related to social virtual worlds.

 an I Be “Myself” as an Avatar?: The Avatar C as an Individual The issue of “self ” is foundational. The avatar is some expression of the user’s “self,” the true nature of which may lead to lengthy, dense, and perhaps unresolvable discussions—just like in the actual world!

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Considerable work has been done on the relationship between the self and the avatar (see, for example, Aurilio, 2010; Turkle, 1994; T. L. Taylor, 2002; Suler, 2004; Schultze & Leahy, 2009; Childs, 2011; Wardle, 2016; Evans, 2011, 2016b). Childs (2011, p. 14) defined self within the larger context of identity as “the ways in which subjectively people perceive or experience themselves as individuals.” He cited research about how the self is influenced by a set of attributes assigned by society and, of greater importance to virtual worlds, by the “self-informative” identity flowing from the conceptualization of him/herself, which can be fluid (citing Manders-Huits, 2010, p.  46). This self-conceptualization traditionally has been examined, according to Evans (2011, pp. 35, 54), on the basis of “traditional” theories that propose a self that is “reflexive and arises through mind and body together,” with emphasis on the role of the social environment in the construction of the self. A more “postmodern” understanding of the self is that it is chaotic, is less unified, and contains multiple fragments (Evans, 2011, p.  36; see also Turkle, 1994, p.  159). Schultze and Leahy (2009, p. 4), referring to the avatar-self relationship, cut to the chase and defined the self as the “total person”: “Given that the avatar-self relationship is intended to capture the multitude of ways in which a communicator [user] interacts with and relates to his/her avatar, this definition of self seems most appropriate in that it is synonymous with the person in his/her entirety, not merely as a psychological entity.” Evans (2011, 2016b) was especially helpful in relating the concept of “self ” to virtual worlds. He argued that three themes could be identified from the literature. First (Evans, 2011, p.  37) is the potential for self-­ exploration. This may lead to experiencing a virtual self that appears different from the actual-world self. He argued that the possession of “alts,” or a user’s desire to change genders or races of existing avatars, constituted evidence of exploration. Second is the role of the avatar in producing an embodied experience of the self. This is where avatars may seem as if they are “real,” or perhaps even more authentic than the user’s actual-world embodiment. Third is the connection between the virtual experience and its (often beneficial) effects on the actual-world self. His research findings led to the conclusion that the “traditional” (versus postmodern) view of the self was particularly relevant to life as an avatar, and that (Evans, 2011, p. 54):

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while multiple selves may be facilitated through new technologies, those participating in them are neither saturated, decentred nor non-reflexive. Residents of virtual worlds take the opportunity to reflect on themselves and actively explore different aspects of their personalities and capabilities and use this experience to bring benefit to being a person in the physical world. Rather than being saturated, they are taking new opportunities and enhancing their ‘real’ lives. Rather than being decentred, residents have a strong sense of self and its relation to who they are in the physical world, whether their self in the virtual world was their ‘real life’ self, a part of it, an addition to it, or a reflection of why they believed themselves to be ‘inside’.

What follows is additional analysis on the self-exploration and embodiment themes, with a look at the physical-world benefits saved for later.

Self-Exploration The potential of virtual worlds for self-exploration is not only a theme identified by Evans but a common motivation for participating in virtual worlds (see the motivations section in the preceding chapter). Turkle (1994, p. 162), for example, writing in the 1990s about MUDs (with a postmodern twist), remarked that the MUD “serves as a kind of Rorschach inkblot, a projection of inner fantasies.” The user can construct selves that are “ongoing”—always there; selves that are “anonymous”—the created character is the only identity, not accountable to the actual world; selves that are “invisible”—“The plain can experience the self presentation of great beauty; the nerdy can be elegant; the obese can be slender.” Finally, there is multiplicity—that is, the user can “create several characters, playing out and playing with different aspects of his self (1994, p. 162).” She was reluctant to embrace a unitary self in virtual worlds, writing that communities such as MUDs challenge existing notions of identity and the self (Turkle, 1994, p. 164): Indeed, they [MUDs] make possible the construction of an identity that is so fluid and multiple that it strains the very limits of the notion. Identity, after all, literally means one [italics hers]. When we live through our electronic self-representations we have unlimited possibilities to be many.

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People become masters of self-presentation and self-creation. The very notion of an inner, “true self ” is called into question.

Whether a “true self ” exists, and the nature of such a self, is subject to interpretation (and is of such an existential and philosophical nature as to be beyond the scope of this study), but there are numerous discussions about how “self-exploration” may (or may not) lead to the “true me” (see, for example, the comments in Suler, 2004; Gottschalk, 2010). T. L. Taylor wrote that avatars may “tell the world something about your self. They are a public signal of who you are. They also shape and help make real how users internally experience their selves” (T. L. Taylor, 2002, p. 51). She continued by writing about “Getting to ‘Me’” among some of her research participants and how the avatar made some feel “finally comfortable as a human” (T. L. Taylor, 2002, p. 53; see also Suler, 2002). If a person feels more like “me” in-world, there is clearly a suppression somehow of the “me” elsewhere or the words of Childs (2011, p. 20), “people suppressing aspects of their identity while offline due to those elements being marginalized or stigmatized within their physical-world relationships; the pseudonymous nature of their virtual relationships then enables them to express these aspects of their self.” Childs further explored how the self and identity are projected through the masks that people wear or the personas that they adopt. He noted (Childs, 2011, p. 17) that “the idea of a persona as a deliberate and constructed mask one puts on for a role, as distinct from personality or identity, is a very useful clarification of the distinction between how we conceptualise ourselves and what we project.” Even in virtual worlds we may cover up what passes for the real “me.”

Embodied Experience Regardless of the understanding of “self ” in the virtual world, avatars produce an embodied experience (the second of Evans’ three themes)— that is, the avatar. They have a form, a look, a presence in the electronic world that appears separate and apart from the user. If taken to extremes, separate and apart may come across as an almost trance-like state for the

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user as he or she engages the avatar, as if “embodiment” had become “disembodiment,” perhaps a “psychologically imagined” self (Jin, 2010b, p. 332). Companion concepts include “deindividualization” and “disinhibition” of virtual-world behavior in which people comport themselves in virtual worlds unlike in actual worlds. These concepts find frequent expression in the literature (see Messinger et al., 2008, p. 4; Suler, 2004; Aas et al., 2010—see also Velleman, 2008; Garvey, 2010a, b). Veerapen (2011) was quick to point out that such an appearance of “disembodiment” is not the opposite of “embodiment,” but rather “signifies a specific form of embodied experience during which the body is relegated to the periphery and thereby is not considered an active or essential element of said experience” (2011, p. 83). She remarked that (p. 83): To an outside observer, the inworld activity consists of a person sitting, seemingly immobile and inactive, and staring at a computer screen while losing awareness of the physical surroundings. As the user becomes increasingly unresponsive to physical stimuli, it seems that by staring at and focusing strongly on a highly active onscreen world, s/he bridges a connection between the mind and the virtual world. As a result, the user seems to be absent, lost in a different world on the other side of the computer screen while the body remains, empty of its essence or mind, in this physical place.

Instead, she maintained that the body was still active and engaged when the user was embodied as an avatar, though perhaps in a manner different from that which was familiar in the physical world. The physical body is not erased, but instead is introduced to a new body, the avatar (Veerapen, 2011, pp. 83–84). Our understanding of social-virtual-world embodiment varies depending on, among other things, the user’s assumptions about identity and motivations for being in-world. We take note that any discussion regarding the relationship of the user to the avatar will necessarily work its way through an exhausting web of terms and meanings that occasionally overlap or may be informed by discipline-specific understandings. This problem notwithstanding, for purposes of this study, we look at two questions: First, how is this complexity approached and examined? Second, to what

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extent does a progression exist that changes the nature of embodiment for the user? An early and popular approach to describing embodiment focused on a continuum with “immersion” on the one end and “augmentation” on the other. Some users will view themselves as fully “immersed” in the virtual-world experience and object to more than minimal overlap between the two worlds. They refuse to reveal actual-world names, living circumstances, and geographic origins, thereby providing room for experimentation and/or self-exploration. Other users see the avatar as little more than a cyber extension or “augmentation” of their actual-world existences. They will share their actual-world names and perhaps even give their avatars similar names. They do not care if their actual-world locations, professional connections, and perhaps even personal lives are woven into their virtual-world conversations. It is unlikely that they will make many adjustments to their identities, certainly if it involves gender-­ bending or racial/ethnic changes, although it is likely that their avatars will feature more idealized versions of their actual-world appearances— and who objects to a little beneficial augmentation here and there? On its face, it would appear that we are returning to the continuum notion that Boellstorff was inclined to argue against in his discussion of “reality.” On the other hand, the immersion/augmentation continuum may be interpreted as a part of his quadrant analysis—that is, the “physical and real” (quadrant a) and the “digital and real” (quadrant b)—without denying the validity of the remaining two quadrants—the “physical and unreal” and the “digital and unreal.” Continuum-based thinking was especially prevalent during the early days of Second Life. Llewelyn, in an early blog essay, made reference to immersionists as “citizens of the metaverse,” (borrowing from earlier posts) which is “the place/country where they spend (part) of their lives” (Llewelyn, 2008, p. 11). She further wrote that “we’re Second Life Residents [italicizations by the author], and we have our own culture, our own way to establish relationships and make businesses. The ones that accept that they are residents are, indeed, Immersionists” (2008, p. 14). Other users who didn’t feel the same ties to Second Life were simply “tourists,” or more appropriately “augmentationists.” One of the contributors to the blog wrote that an “immersionist” is like the writer of the novel, whose

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characters don’t have any physical existence outside the printed word; whereas the “augmentist” is similar to a writer of an autobiography or a diary, in that the user or character is the actual-world self (2008, p. 24). In a later essay, Bennetsen (2006) described “immersion” as containing the view that “SL is its own thing and should not be contaminated by anything from the outside,” which is mainly the domain of role players. In other words, what happens in Second Life stays in Second Life. “Augmention,” on the other hand, reflects the actual world. He added that (at least when he was writing) “the fear is that as SL becomes increasingly open; [sic] it will become more and more like the real world that residents were escaping in the first place.” In other words, the electronic Eden will be lost. Both authors were quick to acknowledge that an infinite number of possibilities lay between the immersion/augmentation extremes and that it may be difficult in every situation to remain true to either extreme. While it is valuable to recognize terms such as “immersion” and “augmentation,” they fail to capture fully the complexity associated with embodiment that exists in the relationship between the avatar and the user, or the user’s understanding of the “otherness” of the avatar. Early on, Taylor (2002, p. 57) confessed that: The issue of how to reconcile the different selves and bodies we find both online and offline is something users are always working through. While most experience a lot of pleasure in creating their avatar and experiencing the development of identity through it, all users are confronted with having to make sense of their immersion.

Taylor went on to characterize the situation as a “tangled mix of bodies” (Taylor, 2002, p. 57). One of the more helpful and complete analyses of embodied experience was provided by Veerapen (2011, pp.  88–93). She presented an increasingly immersive progression of four general meanings of the relationship between the user and the avatar: • The first and most primitive meaning is the “avatar-as-object,” wherein the avatar is the property of the user and has no existence without the

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user’s presence. She referred to this as the “I am me, and the avatar is mine” level. The avatar has no meaningful influence on the user—the avatar does not challenge, extend, or change the user’s identity. Instead, “the user develops a proprietary relation with the avatar, which acts as an object that belongs to him/her” (2011, p.  89). This level would appear to fit most closely with the augmentationist’s view of the avatar-­ user relationship. • A second meaning is the “avatar as prosthesis,” or “the avatar extends me,” in which the avatar ceases simply to be an object, but instead becomes a new source of possibilities that extends beyond the physical world—that is, a psychological equivalent of the blind man’s stick. In the words of Veerapin, referring to Second Life (2011, p. 90): The avatar is a unique type of prosthesis. As it is not physical, it cannot directly enhance the body’s potential in the same manner as reading glasses or the blind man’s stick do. Rather, it allows the boundary of the user’s physical body to extend into the otherwise inaccessible non-­physical world of Second Life. The avatar as prosthesis comes forth when the avatar adopts subjective qualities. Instead of being an object upon which the user can perform actions, the avatar interacts with the world of Second Life and its content, including other avatars, as a subject. Hence, the avatar might touch a book or sit on a chair in Second Life. The avatar is the only means for the user to perform such tasks as his/her physical body is unable to directly interact with the virtual world.

Since the prosthesis is an extension of the user’s body, the user’s identity is allowed to not only exist in the actual world but be embodied in the virtual world (Veerapen, 2011, p. 91). It should be noted that the prosthesis metaphor has been employed elsewhere (Meadows, 2008, pp.  92–95; Rak, 2009, pp. 155; Matviyenko, 2010; Wardle, 2016), though sometimes meanings diverged slightly. • A third meaning increases the significance and autonomy of the avatar as “a phantom limb,” or “I think my avatar is changing me” (Veerapen, 2011, p. 91). The avatar is now a potentially sensory quasi-extension of the physical. The phantom limb is different from the prosthesis in

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that the former “does not extend the body schema but instead it is a quasi-present body part of the person who feels sensations through it as well as attempts to act in the world with it” (2011, p. 91). The user may literally smell the virtual roses. To paraphrase Veerapin (2011, p. 92), by reacting against the disablement imposed on the user during the in-world experience due to not being able to directly perceive the world, the user’s avatar assumes the role of a quasi-component of the user’s own body schema and as a result preserves the quality of “being-­ in-­the-world within the inworld experience” (p. 92). She concluded by noting that “The avatar as phantom limb explains what is really happening when virtual worlds users describe feeling that their avatars overtake them and they become new people during the inworld experience.” By extension, it is worth pointing to a growing literature on how avatars may influence and change their users (see the comments, below, about how the avatar has changed me). • Finally, Veerapen (2011, p. 93) wrote about the “avatar as equal,” the “I=Physical  - I + Avatar  – I” in which the avatar body is brought together with the physical body to create a phenomenal body, a “phenomenal I,” as she expressed it. She wrote that (2011, p. 92): If human experience is incarnate, then the inworld experience is also incarnate. Within this paradigm the body as is experienced, which is called the phenomenal body, is crucial. This body possesses a few qualities: it is a sensorimotor, perceptual, tactile and visceral body. During the inworld experience, the physical body of the user can no longer perform all the tasks of the phenomenal body. Although it is still a sensorial, perceptual, tactile and visceral body, this body has lost its motor qualities. On the other hand, the avatar body acts purely as a motor body, a quality that the physical body of the user is deprived of.

It is this joining together, or unification, that distinguishes the “avataras-­equal” from the avatar as prosthesis and phantom limb. There is no longer a quasi-presence. The avatar has “its own legitimate purpose and reason within the embodiment created during the inworld experience” (Veerapen, 2011, p. 93). It has its own identity. The user still feels heat and cold, senses excitement, responds to telephone calls, and so on, but he/she increasingly substitutes the motor skills of the avatar

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for his/her own movements and tends to take on assumptions and habits of thought that appear to emanate from the avatar. This level probably comes closest to the pure immersion state described above. An interest in the phenomenal body, or something similar, is not unique to Veerapan. In an earlier study, Taylor (2002, p. 57), building on Biocca’s (1997) “body schema” (see Childs, 2011, p.  26, for more on “schema”), examined how users often fluctuate in the use of third and first person in discourse, often moving between the “feeling that avatars are simply an extension of themselves to feeling that the avatar and its life are very much ‘not like them’” (Taylor, 2002, p. 57). In other words, one can conjecture that she was describing the experience of a phenomenal embodiment. In 2002, Suler remarked that people vary greatly in the degree to which they are consciously aware of and control their identities in cyberspace. Some people report that avatars take on a life of their own, with the user temporarily surrendering his or her identity. Still building on Biocca, Childs (2011, p. 25) remarked how the phenomenal body is the mental representation of the body, which is not necessarily the physical body, and can be presented as an extended body seen on the screen. Returning to the issue of “self,” he remarked (2011, p.  25) that “Our sense of ‘self ’ resides wherever the phenomenal body is placed and it is this transfer of our phenomenal body on to an external agent [that] gives rise to embodiment.” At about this time, Yee and Bailenson (2007) wrote about how the user tends to take on the expected behaviors of the avatar look, perhaps to the point of amplifying the separation between the avatar and its user, or expanding the sense of a phenomenal body as described above. Their analysis focused on video games, but offered insight into virtual worlds. They posed the question, “When given an attractive avatar, does a user become more friendly and sociable?” (2007, p.  273). Is a taller avatar more competent and capable of greater leadership skills? Referring to “self-perception” theory, they argued that the avatar responds behaviorally to the way that it sees itself. They called on earlier research that showed how people who wore black uniforms, for example, behaved more aggressively than those who wore white uniforms (2007, p. 273). They used “deindividuation” theory to place the avatar in a setting in

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which the “look” of the avatar can become particularly compelling, since other identity cues commonly found in the physical world may be missing. The avatar may be “deindividuated” from its user (keeping in mind the degrees of immersion described above) due to the anonymity and reduced social cues found in the virtual world—that is, the separate-and-­ apart nature of the avatar-user relationship. The look of the avatar may be the primary identity cue in virtual worlds (p. 274). Yee and Bailenson added (2007, p. 274): Thus, we might expect that our avatars have a significant impact on how we behave online. Users who are deindividuated in online environments may adhere to a new identity that is inferred from their avatars. And in the same way that subjects in black uniforms conform to a more aggressive identity, users in online environments may conform to the expectations and stereotypes of the identity of their avatars. Or more precisely, in line with self-­ perception theory, they conform to the behavior that they believe others would expect them to have.

So, the fire-breathing dragon avatar will behave in a manner consistent with the expectations of the typical dragon and, because it enjoys the deindividuation that may come from its anonymity, may do so with gusto (see a more recent example of this process in Rothman, 2018). Yee and Bailenson called this influence the “Proteus Effect,” taken from the classical Greek sea god of the same name. Proteus could change his physical form at will, from a lion to a snake, to a leopard, to a pig (Yee, 2014, p. 2), or maybe even a fire-breathing dragon! In the words of Yee, “Proteus encapsulates one of the promises of virtual worlds: the ability to reinvent ourselves, to be one and many at the same time” (p.2). In their 2007 study, Yee and Bailenson used 32 undergraduate students to examine whether a person’s (or avatar’s) self-representation influenced behavior. They looked at avatar attractiveness and avatar height. They found that (p. 285): Participants who had more attractive avatars exhibited increased self-­ disclosure and were more willing to approach opposite-gendered strangers after less than 1 minute of exposure to their altered avatar. In other words,

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the attractiveness of their avatars impacted how intimate participants were willing to be with a stranger. In our second study, participants who had taller avatars were more willing to make unfair splits in negotiation tasks than those who had shorter avatars, whereas participants with shorter avatars were more willing to accept unfair offers than those who had taller avatars. Thus, the height of their avatars impacted how confident participants became.

More specifically, people with attractive avatars walked almost three feet closer to a stranger than people with unattractive avatars. They also were more willing to share personal information (Yee, 2014, p. 150). In other words, self-perception was important, and they found a “dramatic and almost instantaneous” effect by avatars on behavior (Yee & Bailenson, 2007, p. 285). So, we can imagine what is going through the mind of a fire-breathing dragon as it engages its surroundings! Other scholars have taken a more Lacanian approach to understanding the avatar. In a lengthy and complex analysis of identity and the expression of self in Second Life, Wardle (2016, p.  90; see also Matviyenko, 2010) built on the ideas of Lacan to identify three “modalities” that can be used to understand the relationships which users share with their avatars. These modalities and their relationships with the user include the (Wardle, 2016, pp. 293–295; 2018, p. 2) following: • Symbolic avatar: Emphasis is placed on a pre-defined role or function for the avatar, with limited user personalization. The relationship of the avatar to the user is one of avatar-as-proxy or extension of the user to allow access to the virtual world; the point of departure is the actual world. The experience of embodiment is one of a tool or doll—a separate object—to the user. The symbolic avatar appears to be similar in function and relationship to the user as Veerapen’s “avatar-as-object” or perhaps the “augmentation” end of the continuum described above. • Imaginary avatar: The avatar is an idealized representation of the user’s actual-world self, or some aspect thereof. In the words of Wardle (2018, p. 2), the imaginary avatar is “the expression of the operator’s [user’s] self-perceived identity, that is to say – a representation of the way they imagine themselves to be, and which they regard as an exten-

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sion or facet of themselves.” The avatar’s relationship to the user is one of immersion, with the avatar expressing and/or performing aspects of the user’s persona. In terms of embodiment, the avatar is experienced only during “play.” In terms of the Veerapen model, the imaginary avatar would seem to occupy a middle position, perhaps closest to the phantom-limb level. • Real avatar: The real avatar has a phenomenal existence. In the words of Wardle (2018, p. 2), these avatars demonstrate a complex mutually interactive relationship between operator [user] and avatar, based neither on function nor on an aspect of operators identity, leading to the emergence of an autonomous symbiotic unit which inhabits-informs-compensates-transcends both. Their interactions with other avatars exhibit the potential for spontaneous independent expression of self within the confines of the virtual environment. The Real is that which is created when the imaginary is given existence, not in the symbolic actual but, moment by moment, by interaction and synthesis. . . whether within the realm of perception which we recognize as the actual, or those idealized virtual worlds in which we choose to be embodied.

In other words, the real avatar tracks Veerapen’s phenomenal embodiment in terms of the avatar’s autonomy and symbiotic nature. Indeed, Veerapen wrote about the symbiotic relationship between the avatar and user, “that the bodies of the user and avatar exist in symbiosis with each other to create the inworld experience, and consequently form a unique unified identity during the duration of the inworld experience (Veerapen, 2011, p.  86).” She referred to the context in which this takes place as “symbiotic embodiment,” or being “symbembodied.” Veerapen might, however, take issue with Wardle’s characterization of the “imaginary” being given existence, if imaginary is viewed as something fantasy-like or unreal. Woven into the conversation about embodiment in virtual worlds is a line of thought on the self as cyborg. Evans (2016b, pp. 55–56) wrote that the experience of self that emerges from engagement with virtual worlds is one of multiple locations, bridged by technological mediation, and experienced through fusion of an organic body and technology. In a

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sense, (Evans, 2016a, Evans, 2016b, p. 56), “the virtual worlds’ user has become a form of ‘cyborg’, a human that has had machine elements grafted into their physical being.” Schultze (2014, pp. 84–95) made reference to the embodiment experience as a mass of “cyborgian entanglements.” Cyborgs are humans whose senses are extended by means of technology and “whose identities are entangled with and mutually constituted by technology” (2014, p.  85; see also Aurilio, 2010). It is not sufficient to understand these entanglements through more traditional “representational” approaches to the embodiment experience—that is, thinking of the user’s body as the origin of identity—and she argued for an understanding based on “performativity”—that is, not making a priori judgments or distinctions between physical and digital embodiments, but exploring the material-discursive practices through which identities are continuously achieved (2014, p. 85). In other words, embodiments are situated sociomaterial assemblages or human-machine configurations that are “enacted through the repetition of material and discursive practices” (2014, p. 87), which may lead to the avatar-user entanglement that is the cyborg. More simply stated, avatar embodiment may begin using a representational perspective, perhaps with the user adopting part of his or her look when creating the avatar—making the avatar look more “real” and more acceptable (classic impression management). The avatar then adds to its embodied identity through everyday practices developed in the actual world and unconsciously transferred to the avatar, creating a “cyborgian subject.” The reverse also occurs. Identities may also be developed and performed in-world that influence the actual world. All in all, according to Schultze (2014, p.  92), the avatar becomes a “cyborgian user-avatar entanglement” [see the Immersion Vignette].

Presence, or Are We “There” Yet? As if understanding the “self ” and expressions of “embodiment” were not complicated enough, multiple scholars from different points of view have examined the role of “presence” in understanding avatar identity and interaction of the avatar with its surroundings (see, e.g., Jacobson, 2001; T. L. Taylor, 2002; Nowak & Biocca, 2003; Schultze & Leahy, 2009;

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Schultze, 2010; Jin, 2010a, b; Lomanowska & Guitton, 2012; Calleja, 2014; Scarborough & Bailenson, 2014). Jacobson (2001, p. 654), writing about text-based worlds, described presence as “a feeling of getting lost or wrapped up in the representations of the text—of being involved, absorbed, engaged, or engrossed in or by them.” This process can also be conceptualized as “flow,” the merging of action and awareness during which “a person loses self-consciousness and a sense of time” (2001, p. 654). At first glance, there would seem to be overlap between the sense of “being there” that we associate with presence and the concept of embodiment. In some analyses, embodiment and presence are conceptually co-­ mingled, but suggest a feeling of presence that precedes a sense of embodiment. For example, Waterworth and Riva (2014) wrote expansively about all aspects of presence and embodiment in virtual reality and virtual worlds—what presence is, how it develops, why it matters—particularly in terms of technology design (2014, p. 57). They defined presence as “a basic state of consciousness—the conscious feeling of being in an external world, at the present time” (2014, p. 2). “Mediated presence,” they added (2014, p. 3) “is the feeling of being in an external world, in the realization of which information and communication technologies play a role.” They maintained that this feeling of presence can be “seen as the yardstick of successful embodiment in a designed world. If you cannot feel really present, you are not embodied (2014, p.  58).” They described three categories of embodiment (2014, pp.  57–60, 72–73): expanded embodiment—an immersive experience whereby a person’s sense of self expands outside the body and the user feels as if he/she is in a place that is not the one in which the body is physically location, a displaced telepresence that is made more intense as the mediating effects of technology disappear from the user’s attention; altered embodiment— the user still experiences his or her physical location, but in a new way thanks to the mediating effects of technology, perhaps like the “blind man’s stick”; and distributed embodiment—an experience that resembles an “out-of-body” moment in which the user sees himself or herself from a disembodied viewpoint. The authors cautioned that the distributed embodiment experience may have limited applicability to virtual-world avatars (2014, p. 73), although on the surface it would seem to be highly

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applicable. They wrote about this embodiment in a way that captures at least part of the phenomenal being described above. The out-of-the-body experience is (2014, p. 74): the feeling that ‘that is me over there, and I am present in that body.’ That body might look like this body, or not. If not, then it is as if I have different selves. If the other self looks like someone else, I might think that I have the experience of having their body—and I might have that experience, at least to some extent, as revealed in physiologic responses indicating appropriate emotional change.

For many virtual-world users, the sensation of “that is me over there” when looking at the avatar is genuine. The “telepresence” mentioned by Waterworth and Riva (above) is part of a presence trifecta described earlier by Nowak and Biocca (2003). They split the presence concept into (2003, p. 482): “telepresence”—the feeling of the user “being there” within the virtual world; “copresence”—the situation in which the user senses that he or she is in the company of others, actively perceiving others and feeling perceived by them; and “social presence”—the situation in which the user feels that the interface provides some sense of access to another mind. For users of social virtual worlds, appreciating the role of social presence is central to understanding how avatar identity is shaped and expressed, especially in a community setting. We focus, below, on the meaning of “telepresence” and “social presence,” weaving Nowak and Biocca’s conceptualization of copresence into the latter. We ask about what “being there” looks like on the path to an embodiment experience and how “being there” may not be the same for everybody in a social virtual world.

Telepresence and “Being There” Schultze and Leahy (2009) defined telepresence as the personal interaction between the user and the avatar. It is the user’s (2009, p. 8) “sense of being there, that is, being present and engaged in the virtual world.” The

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sense of being there will vary. They devised a telepresence continuum that showed avatar/self-segmentation on the one end and avatar/self-­ integration on the other end. Full integration produces the “invisible avatar” in which the user is oblivious to what is going on—just another window on the desktop. The avatar is parked. On the other end of the continuum is the fully segmented “avatar as autonomous agent.” The avatar has a sense of agency and a life of its own. Thanks to programmable animations in-world, the impression is created that the avatar is alive independent of any interaction with the user (2009, p. 11). But it may be more than just an impression. The authors reported the story of a research participant with a female avatar, Abigail, whom the user had left sitting on a swing in-world (2009, p. 11): “It just seemed like she was just sitting there, just patiently waiting, just looking in different directions, playing with her necklace. And it really did seem like I was kinda sneaking up on her. I didn’t want to disturb her. As a matter of fact, … it just seemed like at that moment, Abigail was Abigail, in her self. And I really had nothing to do with controlling her avatar at that point or you know, controlling the shot, or anything like that. It just seemed like she was just sitting there, patiently waiting for me to come back.” What is particularly interesting about this quote is that the participant suggests that Abigail is more than an avatar, namely an independent being that has an avatar.

Between the two extremes on the continuum lay a range of intermediate telepresence conditions, including avatar as repository of capital, as a tool, as an object of play, as an object of affection, as an object of reflection, and as a 3D cursor. In many ways, their characterization of telepresence complements the variations in embodiment described, above, particularly in terms of the distance created between the user and the avatar.

Social Presence and Context A conceptual companion to “telepresence” is “social presence” (Taylor, 2002; Nowak & Biocca, 2003; Schultze & Leahy, 2009; Jin, 2010a, b;

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Veerapen, 2011). Whereas “telepresence” focuses on the degree of immersion and engagement in the virtual world through the user’s interaction with the avatar (Schultze & Leahy, 2009, p. 2), “social presence” more generally includes the performance of embodiment in the presence of, and interaction with, other avatars. While not addressing “social presence” specifically, T. L. Taylor (2002, p.42) stressed the importance of the social virtual world beyond the individual avatar in giving meaning to the embodiment experience. Taylor argued that presence forms the foundation upon which immersion is built, adding that “Users do not simply roam through the space as ‘mind,’ but find themselves as grounded in the practice [all italics in original] of the body, and thus in the world.” It is “through the use of a body as material in the dynamic performance of identity and social life that users come to be made real.” The performance of embodiment in the virtual world shows to others who are present, and to the “self ” embodied by the avatar, that it is actually “there” and “present.” Building on the importance of the practice of presence as a social activity, Taylor added that (2002, p. 44): the inscription of self on the space becomes a socially-mediated experience. Through action, communication, and being in relation to others, users come to find themselves “there”. It is through placing one’s avatar in the social setting, having a self mirrored, as well as mirroring back, that one’s presence becomes grounded … As one user put it, “Avatar bodies don’t exist in isolation. They exist in context.”

In other words, the embodiment experience is made complete through interaction in social settings, as a part of the larger “context” (see also Triberti et al., 2017). As with telepresence, there are various levels of social presence, or context, with which the avatar may engage. Once again, we look to Schultze and Leahy (2009) for guidance on these levels and, like with telepresence, we turn to a continuum. On the “Integrated” avatar/self-end of the continuum, or “social presence dimension,” is the “virtual me” level of social presence (2009, p. 11). This level goes hand-in-hand with the invisible avatar described for telepresence (see above) in that the user generally does not perceive a distinction between him or her, and the avatar. In

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other words, the user (re)presents himself or herself to others in the virtual world in much the same manner as he or she would in the actual world. On the opposing end of the continuum is the fully segmented “scripted character.” Schultze and Leahy (2009, p. 13) limited this level of social presence to organized role play, as, for example, the Gorean communities and/or medieval or fantasy locations in Second Life. Intermediate levels of social presence may be adopted more commonly by users. One level below scripted character is the avatar simply as “character” (2009, p.  12)—avatars are like figures in a narrative, but more “emergent and situated” rather than defined or programmed in advance. The “possible self ” level includes the avatar that (citing Markus & Nurius, 1986) “is the person who they might become, who they would ideally like to become or who they are afraid of becoming.” The character or possible self could be Ana performing her embodiment under the glare of other avatars. That person whom the user would like to become could be the fire-breathing dragon scorching its surroundings. The point that should not be lost is this: regardless the sense of embodiment or level of social presence, the avatar is “out there” in an avatar ecosystem in which the avatar is a participant who interacts at some level with other participants, performing its embodiment experience in the presence of others. The avatar may be at home in the virtual world, but not home alone. Furthermore, users tend to respond to how their avatars see other avatars in a given context, sort of an avatar version of WYSIWYG—what you see is what you get. Avatars have little to go on, especially in truly immersive environments, beyond that which they see, and they respond accordingly. If the avatar sees a fire-breathing dragon across the room, the avatar is inclined to respond as anybody else would to seeing a fire-­ breathing dragon—that is, get out of the way, put on a Kevlar vest, who knows. And the user behind the fire-breathing dragon probably expects such a response. Veerapen (2011) put it more eloquently (though not necessarily using the language of social presence), arguing that the user’s avatar is facing the “other,” that is to say the shape, face, race, and gender of other avatars. In her words, “The face seen by the user belongs to the avatar and not the other avatar’s user, who exists on the periphery of the inworld experience,” thereby privileging the avatar over the user (Veerapen, 2011, p. 97). Likewise, the “other” sees not the user but the

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avatar manifestation of the user. In addition, the user’s thinking is altered such that he/she becomes what the others see—“as I appear to the Other, so I am,” wrote Veerapen (2011, p. 99)—revised Proteus Effect, anyone? Going back to the issue of the “self ” that emerges in virtual worlds, it does so “through interactions with others using mediating tools” (Evans, 2016b, p. 56). Things may change over time, such that “As I appear to the other, so I am” is diminished as actual-world content leaks through. The dynamics of such change, however, may be different than in the actual world. Yee (2014, p. 134) noted, using a gaming setting and the potential romantic relationships flowing therefrom, that the: phrase “inside out” is particularly apt. In face-to-face relationships, we first see how people look and dress, and we learn their names. And then slowly over time, we learn about their passions, fears, and personal hang-ups. In an online game, it tends to work the other way around. How a person treats others or reacts in a crisis piques our interest. Then, after getting to know that person, we may learn about where he or she lives, does for a living, and is called. And only after many interactions do we trade photos and finally get to learn what the other person looks like

In other words, in a virtual world, we may initially see a fire-breathing dragon and respond to a fire-breathing dragon. Later, through normal interaction, we may discover that the dragon’s user is actually a person who is more like a timid lizard. The relationship has developed “inside out.” In essence, what Yee is helping us to understand is that, through our own actions, the power of social presence to shape our identities and our relationship to context may not be durable. Adding to the complexity of the avatar-to-avatar relationship is the existence of the avatar profile. In Second Life (as is the case in most social virtual worlds), the user is invited to write about the avatar in an in-world window that the avatar carries as a trailer to its embodiment (Fig. 3.2). The profile offers the opportunity for the user to provide a wide range of information about the avatar, from its Second Life “birthdate,” to its “biography” (including a picture), to its “picks” of favorite locations, to its list of groups in which it has a membership. In addition, the user is

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Fig. 3.2  Profile statement in Second Life for Meryl McBride The avatar is asked to supply information about its virtual- and actual-world biographies. In this case, the avatar is reasonably open (though coy) about what it is willing to share with the outside world.

allowed to present a “real-world biography” and picture. The trustworthiness of these profile entries to actual-world circumstances varies considerably, often depending on the motivation for the user’s involvement in the virtual world and the nature of the user-avatar relationship. The profile statement may be aspirational or even fantastical, as would be the case with the eroticized picture of the young woman or with the man accompanied by a statement about the sexual prowess or body features of the avatar. In many cases, the user statements set the stage for the user-avatar relationship. The user may clearly indicate in the “real-world biography” that any questions about the user’s actual-world existence are out of bounds—there is a variety of ways that the user will establish this point! In other cases, the user will be clear that there is no boundary and that others are invited to inquire about the user at whatever level of detail that they wish. In still other cases, the avatar profile and its humorous deceptions are clear, notwithstanding comments to the contrary by the user. It

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is likely, for example, that the avatar biography that describes a fire-­ breathing dragon (perhaps including a smoke-shrouded picture), followed by a “real-world biography” that confirms that the user is in fact a fire-breathing dragon will be laughed at. Here is the point: the expression above, “As I appear to the Other, so I am,” will be influenced by the avatar profile. An avatar sees other avatars not only in terms of how they present themselves, but how they reveal themselves in their profile statements. Indeed, a popular pastime among Second-Life residents is to view the profile statements of nearby avatars, partly out of curiosity—so-called profile perving—but also as a way of informing future interactions. In short, social presence is an avatar response to “context.” The context includes individual enactment of embodiments (however defined) in the presence of other avatars doing the same things, informed by additional information from profile statements and whatever is revealed by others, and limited by the reduced number of body cues inherent in a world of avatars. Outside of virtual worlds, geographers have a lengthy interest in context effects. Electoral geographers, for example, are curious about the “neighborhood effect” on voting behavior, with people in a particular type of partisan setting influenced by local contacts, tending to vote the “natural” party of the area (see, to cite two dated examples, P. J. Taylor, 1985, pp. 147–48; Muir & Paddison, 1981, pp.  98–101; along with more contemporary treatments in Agnew, 2003; Kwan, 2012; Weaver, 2014; Mancosu, 2017). The power of the neighborhood effect remains a point of contention, depending on the meaning of “neighborhood,” the types of people in the neighborhood, and the influences of other “neighborhoods” in the lives of voters (see especially Weaver, 2014). While a study of virtual neighborhoods will almost never involve voting behavior, interesting questions may be asked about other types of context effects in the avatar neighborhood.

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Self, Embodiment, Presence, and Who Shows Up Who Are These People? Given the numerous possibilities for virtual-world self-definition and embodiment expression, we may ask about who shows up when the user creates the avatar? To some degree, who shows up will vary depending on whether the user is new to virtual worlds—just starting out with avatars—or whether the “new” avatar is really one of a succession of “alts,” or alternative avatars (and many users have multiple “alts”) designed with special purposes in mind. Trying to understand the range of people who show up, consequently, may be exhausting. There is reason to believe that, for many users, the original avatar reflects some version of the actual-world person, whether in terms of looks or psychological makeup. The version, however, may be idealized. Messinger et al. (2008, p. 15) found in their empirical analysis that people, in designing avatars, tended to balance between “self-verification” (be like me) and “self-enhancement” (be better than me) motives. People were apt to “customize their avatars to bear similarity to their real selves, but with moderate enhancements” (p. 15). Ducheneaut et al. (2009) presented an extensive empirical analysis on user personalization of avatars (focusing on “main” avatars), using several game-based and social virtual worlds (including Second Life). The authors found that about 68 percent of users in their study created avatars that looked differently from actual-world selves in some fashion. In terms of identity expression, their factor analysis revealed three conceptual factors, or influences, on how the avatar is presented: an “idealized” self—the avatar is a fanciful version of the user, perhaps including features that the user wished he or she possessed; a “standing out” self—the avatar is created to see and “be seen”; and a “following a trend” self—the avatar is designed to look like a celebrity, desirable acquaintance, or trendy person. The Ducheneaut et  al. study (along with other research) provided a basis for a detailed profile of avatar characterizations:

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• Gender: Female users tended to create idealized versions of themselves, whereas male users favored avatars that stand out (remember that both gaming and social virtual worlds are subjects of the study, which may influence responses). Adding to these findings, a more recent study (Mitra & Golz, 2016) found that nearly all the participants selected a gender that was the same as their actual-world gender; and when asked to change gender, actual-world females were especially quick to change back to the original gender. Females were particularly concerned with the gender-specific appearance of their avatars. • Age: Older users broadly preferred creating avatars that looked more idealized than their actual-world selves—that is to say, “younger?” This finding is consistent with Martey et al. (2015) in their analysis of how older users in Second Life tended to create an “ageless representation” of themselves—Second Life is that mythical fountain of youth, only now it is not so mythical. • Actual-world body: Users with actual-world weight issues tended to create idealized avatars more than users without weight issues. • Social virtual worlds: Unlike with the gaming environments, users in Second Life showed a meaningful preference for creating avatars that were more idealized (see also Mills, 2017). • Personality differences: Users tended to rate their avatars as more conscientious, extraverted, less neurotic, and less open than their actual-­ world selves (using the Big Five criteria, as described below). • Attachment and satisfaction: Users who presented more idealized selves tended to be more attached to their avatars, especially older and more obese users. Users with the smallest psychological differences between their virtual- and actual-world selves were more satisfied with their avatars. Ducheneaut et al. (2009) added the somewhat contrasting finding that “while users apparently grow more attached to their avatar if its body differs significantly (in an idealized way) from theirs, it looks as if great differences in personality between the two actually reduce satisfaction. In other words, trying to behave in a very different way from one’s offline self in VWs is not particularly satisfying.” The authors concluded that users tended to create digital identities that looked close to Western ideals—an idealized “perfect body”

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outcome—which was potentially creating virtual worlds with notably less diversity and more stereotypes than the actual worlds whence the avatars came.

Do These People Travel with Baggage? As already alluded to, who shows up in avatar form may reflect multiple actual-world circumstances that seep into virtual lives. Yee (Yee, 2014, p. 5) described such a situation in his “Proteus Paradox” (not to be confused with the earlier conceptualization of the “Proteus Effect,” described above). Regardless how we morph ourselves in our virtual lives, according to Yee, and however we see our electronic selves, the physical world still intrudes. While writing mainly about gaming, Yee noted (pp. 4–5) that even though the user may want to feel free and empowered when engaging a virtual setting, “our offline politics and cognitive baggage prevent us from changing.” He continued with comments (2014, p. 74) about how gamers often find themselves wrapped up in the logistics of managing game life, almost to the point of working a “second job”; how psychological hardwiring does not necessarily change in virtual worlds, often forcing actual-world identities, ethnicities, gender stereotypes, and prejudices into virtual-world settings (2014, pp.  94–116); and how virtual-world romances may blossom in the actual world (2014, pp. 117–138). So, if the user of the fire-breathing dragon has an actual-world “thing” about non-fire-breathing dragons, it may be dragged into the virtual-world environment and how dragons are treated. Aas et  al. (2010) focused more on the stability of personality traits between Second-Life avatars and their users, employing the Big Five personality questionnaire and psychology students. They found that the personality traits of these students did not differ between the actual-world setting and Second Life, and that people tended not to use virtual worlds to create a virtual personality by means of the avatar (2010, p. 11). The authors allowed that the relative absence of differences between the two worlds may have been a reflection of the nature of the questionnaire, which tended to be insensitive to change. In addition, most test subjects were inexperienced with virtual worlds and were new to the

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avatar-formation processes (2010, p.  12). In a later study, Sung et  al. (2011) discovered that even though users’ and avatars’ personality ratings may be positively correlated, embodiment experiences may still reveal personality characteristics that show a difference between the two worlds. Fundamentally, these findings indicate a level of complexity similar to that which was described for the study of self and embodiment. Who shows up in virtual worlds, while tending toward some sort of actual-­ world representation, can in fact reflect a variety of choices about the avatar.

Can an Avatar “Grow Up”? Perhaps because of context, an in-world socialization process, and/or other influences, it is likely that the avatar’s look and its embodiment experience will evolve over time. It depends, of course, on the motivations for entering a virtual world, and how the user defines the avatar. If, for example, the avatar is merely an extension of the user—perhaps Veerapen’s “avatar-as-object”—it may be that little incentive exists to make changes, though changes may happen anyway. Wardle’s comments (2016, p. 82) reflect the thinking of many writers when he observed (citing Jones, 2007; see also Harris et al., 2009) that “The avatar/Self grows and changes along with the user through the course of play/interaction. The user develops and refines (or radically changes) the avatar’s appearance over time, and the avatar can grow to manifest aspects of personality very different from those the user exhibits in real life.” Evolution clearly occurs in terms of technical competence— that is, the ability to function in the virtual world and to appreciate the opportunities that exist—as is clearly indicated by the typical user’s desire to transition from a “newbie” look to something more sophisticated. Indeed, in a world of avatars the sophistication of the “look” often serves as a gateway to acceptance by members of a community, with the newbie often a subject of condescension, the “Untouchable” of the avatar caste system. Other evidence leans toward a more limited evolution, if any, at least in psychological terms. Ducheneaut et al. (2009, n.p.) argued, based on

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their findings, that “as one’s tenure in a given VW increases, their offline and online personalities become more congruent, perhaps to the point of becoming identical.” Aas et al. (2010, p. 12) found, based on their study, that little difference existed between avatar and user personalities, but they hedged their bets in their study by cautioning that: it takes quite some time to develop a ‘virtual’ personality, which might be found in people using virtual realities on a regular basis. Some participants asked the instructor, if they were supposed to fill in the personality questionnaire as themselves or as their avatar. Apparently, some participants perceived their avatar as partly distinct from themselves, otherwise they would not have asked how to fill in the questionnaire.

For some users looking for a change, alts are the answer. Childs (2011, pp. 23) observed that there is social pressure in virtual worlds to preserve a stable primary identity—a constant identity associated with the “pseudonymous” representation of the user—which may lead to the creation of “alts” to reflect identity change and evolution. Assuming that an evolutionary process of some sort exists, what do the first steps look like? According to Warburton (2008), the first stage was entering the virtual world and developing a level of technical competency—losing the fumbling around of the “newbie.” Stage two was reaching the care boundary, that fuzzy line beyond which the user feels an emotional pull toward the avatar and the user starts to care about the avatar; the avatar may start to show a personality of its own. Stage three was “schism,” in which the user felt pressure to adopt roles beyond that of the original avatar, leading perhaps to the creation of “alts.” Stage four was “managed instability,” that flux between playful and professional modes and how avatars should look. And finally, in stage five, multiple avatars offered channels for reflecting on roles and identities that the user takes for granted in everyday life. While this progression was somewhat chaotic and assumed away much of the complexity related to self, embodiment, and presence discussed above, it did touch on themes important to understanding the evolutionary process as described elsewhere. Childs (2011, p. 23), for example, built on Warburton’s model with a trajectory that focused on “exploration” (learning the technology),

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“professionalization” (avatar as extension of self ), and “play” (avatar has its own identity). We can relate to Warburton’s progression in other work on “liminality.” Martinez (2011) wrote that the transition from the actual to the virtual world is territorial, with the avatar as a liminal being that engages in processes that accompany the crossing from one territory to the other. There is the “rite of separation” that involves creating an electronic body and, especially important, a new name. Once the name is complete, the avatar leaves the physical world behind. There is the “transitional” stage in which the avatar is exposed to liminal or threshold rites—that is, learning the operational rules of the electronic setting. Finally, there are the “ceremonies of incorporation,” or post-liminal rites, especially for those avatars joining communities, in which the norms of the new setting are inculcated. The “schism” has occurred, borrowing from Warburton (2008) and Childs (2011). Regardless the content, order, and timing of sequences, it is hard to imagine, particularly for fully immersed avatars in active social settings, especially settings different from customary actual-world environments (think the gay user who is out of the closet only in virtual worlds), that personality change of some sort would not accompany a lengthy tenure in a virtual world. Such change is at least implied in our understanding of the virtual-world self, and the practice of embodiment in a world in which avatars are socially present.

What the Surveys Say Data related to identity and presence using the mixed-method analysis described above provided selective confirmation of the preceding conceptual narratives. Questionnaire statements were designed to track much of the conceptual narrative presented above. As before, we begin here with a look at the questionnaire findings (Table 3.2), followed by interviewee comments. In addition, selected associations were discussed using correlation coefficients (Appendix B).5  Correlation coefficients at 0.30 or higher were deemed sufficiently strong to be worthy of notice.

5

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Table 3.2  The relationship between the avatar and the user Percentage (n=70, unless otherwise noted) Relationship between the avatar and the usera

SDis Dis

1. My “current” avatar is primarily a tool or a doll—Little more than an object or possession that gives me access to SL 2. In terms of identity, I believe that who you are in RL is who you will be as an avatar in Second Life 3. The “look” of my “current” avatar is an idealized version of myself (i.e., perhaps a different gender, younger, looks more beautiful and/or more muscular, etc.) 4. When I am in my “current” avatar in SL, I talk a lot about things in RL 5. My “current” avatar is more conscientious, more extraverted, and/or less neurotic than I am 6. Over time, I have become more emotionally attached to my “current” avatar 7. When I am in my “current” avatar in Second Life, I feel like I am in an external world and that I have a “presence” that is separate from RL 8. When my “current” avatar is in Second Life, I feel as if my avatar has a life and/or mind of its own 9. I think of my “current” avatar as my “true self.” 10. When my avatar is talking to other avatars in Second Life, my avatar (or its user) tries to guess the RL characteristics of the users of the other avatars (i.e., you/old, fat/thin, different gender/race, etc.) 11. I see my “current” avatar in Second Life as a “character,” like in a novel or movie. 12. When my “current” avatar is in Second Life and is talking face-to-face with another avatar, I tend to act like the way my avatar looks (i.e., if I look like a fire-breathing dragon, I act like a fire-breathing dragon)

45.2 27.4 11.0

N

Agr SAgr 13.7 2.7

2.7

16.4 24.7

38.4 17.8

5.5

11.0 20.6

39.7 23.3

2.7

21.9 21.9

42.5 11.0

11.1 20.8 33.3

25.0 9.7

1.4

4.1

12.3

58.9 23.3

4.1

13.7 15.1

46.6 20.1

26.0 30.1 20.6

19.2 4.1

4.1

35.2 13.7

11.0 35.6

15.3 23.6 25.0

29.2 6.9

26.0 31.5 19.2

15.1 8.2

8.2

42.3 11.0

19.2 19.2

(continued)

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Table 3.2 (continued) Percentage (n=70, unless otherwise noted) Relationship between the avatar and the usera

SDis Dis

13. My “current” avatar has friends in Second Life who have become friends in RL 14. When I see my “current” avatar on the screen, I have a feeling of “that is me” over there 15. My “current” avatar friendships in Second Life are just as close as my friendships are in the actual or physical world 16. My RL personality and “current” avatar’s personality have become less similar over time 17. Over time, I have increasingly come to care about my “current” avatar 18. Given who I am in RL, I feel that I am “deceiving” people around me in SL when I am in my “current” avatar 19. I am willing to share RL information about myself with other avatars who are not friends or acquaintances in Second Life 20. I am willing to share RL information about myself with avatars who are friends or acquaintances in Second Life 21. I believe that my “current” avatar has changed me in terms of how I see and/or feel about myself in RL

8.2

12.3 11.0

N

Agr SAgr 31.5 37.0

1.4

1.4

13.9

50.0 31.3

1.4

8.2

19.2

43.8 27.4

26.0 46.6 19.2

6.9

0.0

53.4 26.0

1.4

19.2

1.4

39.7 39.7 11.0

8.2

32.9 19.2 19.2

24.7 4.1

2.7

5.5

5.5

17.8 20.6

1.4

12.33 56.2 23.3

38.4 17.8

Source: Self-generated data Note abbreviations: SDis Strongly disagree, Dis Disagree, N Neither agree nor disagree, Agr Agree, SAgr Strongly agree a Some statements were abbreviated slightly from those in the questionnaire in the interest of space. No meanings were lost

One surprising finding relates to who participated in the analysis. The term “current” avatar was employed throughout the analysis to distinguish between the avatar associated with a particular type of place and the respondent’s “main” avatar. This distinction was assumed to be particularly relevant to those participants in role-play locations who would desire a freedom of expression and level of immersion in the current avatar not available to the more public main avatar. Given the number of people

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with multiple avatars—close to 80 percent of respondents claimed multiple avatars—this assumption was assumed to be valid. As it turned out, over 98 percent of respondents claimed that the current avatar was also the main avatar. Why this was the case can be only a subject of conjecture. Perhaps, to suggest one possibility, there was confusion between the meanings of “current” and “main,” though definitions were given for both. Little clarification for this finding was gleaned from the interviews. The questionnaire data suggested, at least for many of those avatars surveyed, that respondents had little difficulty extending the perceived actual-world “self ” into the avatar presence on the other side of the screen—that is, the avatar is “just me.” Over half (56.2 percent) of the participants agreed/strongly agreed that who they were in the actual world is who they were in the virtual world.6 These respondents largely failed to see their avatars as “characters” in a novel (correlation of −0.31) and had Second Life friends who were also actual-world friends (correlation of 0.41). Nearly the same percentage (48.9 percent) thought of their current avatars as their “true selves.” Over three-fourths (81.3 percent) of respondents looked at their avatars and believed they were looking at “me” over there. This sense of being “me” was buffered by a similar proportion of respondents (79.4 percent) who agreed that, given who they were in the actual world, they were not “deceiving” people while in the virtual world. As expected, much of the interview data confirmed the “just me” outlook of users relative to their avatars. Key-informant Jo Yardley wrote that she always had “been myself in both VR and RL.” Key-informant Rosie Gray observed that “Rosie is me in another space.” She believed that most of the avatars in her group were the “‘I’m just me’ types.” An anonymous key informant commented that there was “nothing fundamentally different between the sense of who the avatar is and the user is.” Key-informant Valibrarian Gregg provided a slightly different take on her perception of self when she opined “it is simply a ‘metaphor me’—still wholly me.” She added that most of the participants in her library group “have what I call 6  A five-point Likert scale was used in the questionnaire, but for ease of analysis the percentages for agree/strongly agree and disagree/strongly disagree are summed to produce figures for “agree” and for “disagree.”

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‘authentic avatars’ meaning they are the same in both the physical and virtual world.” She illustrated her point describing video-based physical-­ world board meetings in which people who usually engaged as avatars could see how each other actually looked. She confided that “I see their physical appearance … which is SO [her emphasis] like the avatar, even if they are much older, etc. … There is something about their ‘essence’ that is captured by the avatar.” Many of the focus-group participants echoed the same “avatar-is-me” perception. One participant asserted “I am me everywhere. This is me the way I act on Halloween [the group convened near Halloween] in a focus group. I’m always playing myself. There’s me the Jedi, me the Harper of Pern, me the mentor in Non-profit Commons.” A particularly insightful comment was provided by a member of a residential community who concluded, “I think friends in RL would recognize [name] and vice versa, as the same person with different parts of the volume adjusted.” Another residential participant could not imagine being other than “me”: “I feel like my avatar and my typist are the same person and over the years we learned from each other and adapted.” The it is “just me” assertion was often belied by who showed up in the virtual world—it is “just me” except for all those ways that I changed “just me” when I created my avatar. The questionnaire data revealed that nearly two-thirds of respondents believed that their avatars were “idealized” versions of their selves, particularly in terms of the “look.” They were younger, more beautiful, more muscular, more the opposite of what the actual-world mirror was showing them. Key-informant Rosie Gray described her avatar as a “younger me,” as did a member of another group who wrote “I feel my AV [avatar] is a younger and more ideal version of me.” One focus-group member epitomized the quandary faced by many users: “I would say [avatar name] is very much me in here, even though he doesn’t look like me (look is not modeled after my RL looks I mean, ethnicity and gender match though).” Another member who projected an avatar is “just me” outlook confided that “obviously the avatar is a very ‘not me’ in appearance etc.” These findings remind us of Ducheneaut et  al.’s (2009) idealized self in describing who shows up or Messinger et al.’s (2008, p. 15) self-enhancement tendencies—that is, people love to come in as “just me” but with “moderate enhancements.”

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In some cases avatars stressed that they were not “just me,” but the “real me.” A member of a residential community reflected that “I think many people are more themselves here than in their RL and more willing to share their true concerns and worries … I feel much freer here to actually be my real self.” That is not always such a good idea, according to another participant at the same meeting, who cautioned that “some people use it [virtual world] to let their horrible inner self run free.” The real me may be an unexpressed part of the self. One focus-group participant thought out loud about his personal complexity, as divulged by his avatar. His avatar, he wrote, “is definitely very different to my RL self, but humans are complex, and I don’t think we are one-dimensional.” He added that “So essentially [avatar name] is me or part of me. … I see it as method acting.” When the interviewer (Meryl McBride) asked him if he saw his avatar as a sliver of his driver’s self, the answer was “yes.” Another participant at the same meeting blurted in response, “Oh dear, there’s a tart living inside me in rl then:).” It is interesting to ask whether the “real me” to which respondents are referring is part of T. L. Taylor’s “getting-­ to-­me” (2002, p. 51) process described above, including those parts that may be bottled-up in the actual world but need to be expressed to feel fully comfortable as a human. Or perhaps the respondents are reflecting Turkel’s (1994, p. 164) “unlimited possibilities to be many,” those facets of the self or identity not expressed in the actual world. The “real me” possibility calls into issue how to interpret a related questionnaire statement about the avatar as an expression of the “true self,” to which 48.9 percent of respondents agreed. Should the true self be interpreted as how the user views him/herself in the actual world, extended to the virtual world, or as something more, yet very authentic, that is found in the avatar and possibly undisclosed in the user? It is notable that 35.6 percent of the respondents were agnostic in their views of the true self, and another 15.1 percent disagreed altogether that the current avatar was a true self. On the other hand, correlation coefficients revealed relatively strong associations between the avatar as true self, and a feeling of “that is me” in the virtual world (0.52), the look of the avatar is idealized (0.43), and emotional attachment to the avatar (0.37). For these respondents, the avatar represents something special and may be the real me.

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The avatar is “just me” perception carried over to embodiment discernment in relatively complex ways. Overwhelmingly, respondents did not see their avatars as little more than tools, possessions, or objects that provided a gateway to the virtual world, as the 72.6 percent disagreement level with this statement suggested. Veerapen’s “avatar-as-object” category, the most transparent and/or augmentationist on the list, did not appear to resonate with these respondents. Then again, over half (56.1 percent) of respondents disagreed with the notion that the avatar had a life and/or mind of its own, suggesting something other than Veerapen’s “avatar-as-­ equal” relationship, the most immersive category. A similar percentage (57.5) did not view the avatar as some sort of character found in a novel or movie, signifying a probable lack of interest in the immersion associated with role play. Clues to the “real” avatar relationship may be found in the high levels of agreement with how much the user has come to care about the avatar over time (79.4 percent), how much the user has grown emotionally attached to the avatar (82.2 percent), the extent to which in-world friends become actual-world friends (68.5 percent), the degree to which the user is willing to share actual-world information with avatar friends (79.5 percent), and the inclination to talk about actual-world things when in an avatar form (53.5 percent). These data suggest an avatar-­ user relationship that is consistent with Veerapen’s “avatar-as-­ prosthesis” category in that the avatar extends the user in some fashion. There is also room to argue for Veerapen’s “phantom-limb” relationship in which the avatar becomes a quasi-present body part. Regardless, the data clearly suggest a largely friendly, if not intimate, relationship between the user and avatar, and between the avatar and other actual-world users. The interview data are largely consistent with the questionnaire findings, particularly in terms of users proclaiming their avatars as “extensions” of themselves—the avatar is not “just me,” but “more than me,” a new source of possibilities (borrowing from Veerapen, 2011) that extends beyond the physical world. Key-informant Valibrarian Gregg remarked that, in characterizing her avatar, “I can see the idea of a prosthesis or extension of RL.” As if referring to the same script, a focus-group member wrote “Sort of a prosthesis or extension of RL.” Another focus-group participant commented on how she was a librarian in her actual life and simply extended that calling in a prosthetic way to the virtual world. The

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“more-than-me” function was especially evident in the Virtual Abilities focus group. Users in this group were motivated to join as a way of extending themselves beyond actual-world disabilities. In the words of one member, “I see my avatar as an extension of myself and what I could do able body if I could. So I get to experience things in Second Life I wish I could try real-life.” The “more-than-me” relationship took on various looks. Aldo Stern wrote that his avatar was basically “me just better dressed … he doesn’t take over or anything like [that].” He added that “if I suddenly do or say something that surprises me, it’s not Aldo … it’s something within me, that suddenly found a pathway out.” Key-informant Yardley provided a key insight into this process. When asked if she were describing her embodiment as a phantom limb, she mused: I’m not sure. I mean she looks like me, she acts like me. I steer her, but we’re not attached on a very high level. I don’t feel her pain. I don’t smell her roses, but when her hair falls off I am embarrassed and when she is doing something fun I can’t help but smile, so there is a connection but not as strong as some people have with their avatars.

Key-informant Rosie Gray said that the avatar was “The same ‘you’ living in a different world.” Sudane Erato considered herself “very transparent … but I simply [am] not nor can be completely transparent. … For example … I present as an African American … but in rl I am not … half German … and half many other things.” She added that “I am finding how easily I can express my ‘self ’ as Sudane … at the beginning, I thought this would be hard. But I am very comfortable ‘in my skin.’” So, she is transparent about being “just me” in a different embodiment. Another key informant wrote that: I have a visceral connection to my avatar as I see it as an extension of my self—using the literal definition of avatar … a vehicle or container that allows me to relate and interact in a virtual world. I even feel sensations in my body whey my avatar is doing things, an example of this is in my home . . . . I have a hammock that swings gently and when I sit my avatar in it (sometimes with a friend) I can feel in my body the gentle rocking s­ ensation

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and it relaxes me. A spinning carnival ride will get me dizzy for instance, and when I have cybersex it feels like a real sexual encounter only where it is taking place is virtual.

The data also uncovered an important minority opinion about embodiment that should not be ignored, one that focused less on “more than me” and more on “other than me” (at least as expressed in the actual world). While it is true that the majority of respondents (56.1 percent) disagreed that their avatar embodiments had lives and minds of their own, a meaningful minority of users (23.3 percent) agreed with the proposition that their avatars constituted something separate and apart, something “other.” The avatar became a source of agency to which the user responded and evoked emotions that the user felt. These perceptions are expressed, more often than not, by members of role-play groups and sims. Key-informant Kaiila Mahoney, for example, divulged that: I think Kaiila is the person I often wish I could be or maybe that I am and yet hide in the outside world. I definite can immerse myself in her and I can feel real emotions and sensations that are sometimes as intense if not more than any ones in real [life]. . . . sometimes I can be very mad at her. She has a tendency to get a little too emotional or too driven. I will find her so engrossed that the real me forgets to eat, sleep or sometimes even go [to] the bathroom. I then have to tell her to chill her jets. LOL.

A role-play focus-group participant remarked that her avatar had “A presence of its own, an immersed being that feels separate and apart from the driver.” Another member of the focus group reveled in telling how “My sex scenes are very intense and extremely detailed that my partner can actually ‘feel’ it happening.” Key-informant Cat shared that she sometimes hears people in her sims “refer to their avatar in the third person and indicate a very disconnected view of who they are in relationship with their avatar … Key-informant Gentle Heron was unsure how to describe herself in terms of the classification presented, preferring to conflate immersion with transparency. ‘I think it is perhaps my feeling of deep immersion in the VW which makes the avatar transparent to me.” But the immersion that she described was quite real:

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When I dance with a partner, I feel his arms around me, I feel my skirt and hair moving against me. The RL “I” … can’t have those sensations without the action of the SL “I.” The RL “I” can’t have those sensations without the action of the SL “I”.

For some respondents, the meaning of “other than me” was confusing and ephemeral. One focus-group participant confessed that “the avi is an extension of the real life self but, she also seems to have a life of her own and … it’s a 2-way relationship.” Along the same lines, another participant confided that her avatar was “sometimes just an extension of me as RL but sometimes my avi is a presence of its own.” Another focus-group member provided a million-dollar-man twist on the “other,” acknowledging that “my avatar has always been close and similar in SL and RL,” but “I feel like SL is a protective layer. My avatar is indestructible.” The correlation data supported the existence of an avatar that was “other than me.” Respondents showed a positive association (0.32) between avatars having minds of their own and being perceived as a character, like in a novel or movie. A similar association (0.39) was found with users who perceived that the avatar had a presence in Second Life that was separate and apart from the actual world. These expressions suggest a level of immersion consistent with Veerapen’s “avatar-as-equal” category, the highest level of immersion. An unexpected discovery in the interview data, however, was the idiosyncratic manner in which some respondents defined “immersion.” They defined immersion as being fully engaged with the virtual world but still “just me,” or being fully immersed in one’s work. As Cat remarked: I am quite immersive in terms of my affinity with my avatar and how I use Second Life in that I am fully present, mindful, and engaged with what is [happening] around me inworld. I interrelate with people, spaces, intellectual pursuits, and emotions very immersively. I am also very open to connecting with the real people behind the avatars, learn about them, and am very open to sharing many aspects of my real self. Frequently I find people opening up to me about what’s happening to them in their life, and I share with them, as well.

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Key-informant Rosie Gray added to the dissent when she observed that she tries “to make my avatar as real as possible. … I guess that is a form of immersion.” Closely connected to embodiment is the perception of “presence” in-­ world, both telepresence and social presence (see Schultze & Leahy, 2009; see also Waterworth & Riva, 2014), although the questionnaire results were unclear regarding the nature of the connection. It appears that many respondents commingled their understandings of presence and embodiment. In terms of telepresence, the data revealed that two-thirds of respondents (66.7 percent) felt that their avatars were in an external world and that they had a presence separate from the actual world; only a small percentage (17.8) disagreed. As reported above, a positive association (0.39) was found between presence and those respondents who felt that their avatars had minds and lives of their own. Presence was also correlated with emotional attachment (0.30). These data suggest that the sense of “being there” is most pronounced among those users whose avatars fit into the “other-than-me” relationship category and those users, regardless of category, who simply feel close to their electronic incarnations wherever they are—that is, if I feel emotionally attached to “just me” in the actual world, why not to my avatar in the virtual world? The data regarding social presence were more difficult to interpret and required analysis that was more speculative. Respondents were asked about whether their avatars acted the way they looked when their avatars were talking face-to-face with other avatars. In other words, if the user’s avatar looked like a fire-breathing dragon, did it act like a fire-breathing dragon? Slightly over half of respondents (52.3 percent) agreed, with a little more than a quarter (27.4 percent) disagreeing. These data suggested support for Yee and Bailenson’s Proteus Effect, in which avatars comported themselves in a manner consistent with their presentations. Users were also asked whether they tried to guess the actual-world characteristics of other avatars’ users. A plurality (38.9 percent) disagreed and a similar percentage (36.1) agreed that they did try to guess. Apparently, about two-thirds of the respondents were either agnostic about what the fire-breathing dragon’s user looked like or had no interest, suggesting that other avatars were treated as they appeared. The third of the respondents

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who agreed that they tried to guess the user’s actual-world characteristics may have done so for reasons that included simple curiosity or they felt strongly about interacting with who the avatar “really” was. Regardless of motives, we should not forget T. L. Taylor’s (2002) affirmation of how it is in the social setting (the context) that the sense of presence becomes grounded. Concern for presence as defined in this study did not figure prominently in interviewees’ comments. The most expansive and helpful response related to telepresence, or “being there,” came from key-­ informant Valibrarian Gregg, who wrote: I can let go of being me in only the physical world and be totally me virtually. But—that took some time and experience in virtual worlds … to develop that total sense of presence …. I find the biggest advantage of virtual worlds over say a webinar or ZOOM—is the sense of presence …. By that I mean …. We are in a shared space that is “real” not just peeking through the window into our homes or cafes in the physical world. … and by that we focus on what we are thinking and discussing without the distraction of what our bodies look like or what is behind us “on camera.”

“Being there” and enacting the embodiment presented was not without aggravations in the avatar context. One of the focus-group members provided an intriguing insight into her experience with stereotypes. She was female in the actual world but had presented as male. She remarked that it is “very interesting to learn how differently people act when talking with a female or male avatar … it made me angry to realise that as I always wanted to be seen as a person and not reduced to gender or the way I look like … it really makes me angry that people also act differently depending on my appearance …”—once again, Yee’s Proteus paradox, anyone? Most respondents did not see their avatars as “growing up” or evolving with time, except in terms of emotional connections. Questionnaire data showed nearly three-fourths (72.6 percent) of users disagreeing with the statement that their actual-world and avatar personalities had become less similar over time. On the other hand, four-of-five (82.2 percent) of respondents agreed that they had become more emotionally attached to

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their avatars, and only a slightly lower proportion (79.4 percent) concurred that they had increasingly come to care about their avatars. Interview responses generally tracked the questionnaire data. Key-­ informant Rosie Gray noted that “I think I’ve become more attached to my avatar.” That process began after she was convinced that the social virtual world was not a game. Interesting, Corcosman Voom offered a similar response about the role of gaming in his view of who his avatar would become. One focus-group member noted that “my relationship to my avatar didn’t really change but we grew together over the years.” Another focus-group participant acknowledged that “we have come closer to each other over time.” For another focus-group member it was more than emotions, but personal discovery. She described how “I’ve changed over time. The difference is that now I consciously use my avatar and her roles as a way to explore issues I face irl [in real life]. I help myself by playing somewhat uncomfortable roles in SL.” For key-informant Caryl Meredith, it was about how technology change helped her grow into her avatar: “I think that my relationship has evolved. I’ve always thought of my avatar as me. SL and its technology has changed. As avatars have become more realistic I have come to think that the avatar is really me. In the beginning, I thought that it was a cartoon of me.” The questionnaire and interview data permit us to draw a limited number of conclusions that provide an empirical basis for comprehending better the issues discussed in the preceding conceptual narrative. • A slight majority of respondents saw their avatar-selves as “just me”— extensions into electronic space of their actual-world selves. • The “just me” assertion was put to the test by who actually showed up in the virtual world—often it was “just me” with modifications that made the avatar “just an idealized me.” • The user who claimed that the avatar was “just me” often redefined it to be the “real me”—that part of “me” that the respondent felt was the authentic self but could not be exposed to the actual world. • In terms of embodiment, a majority of users saw their avatars as “more than me,” or a prosthetic extension of some sort. Users did not see their avatars as merely tools or objects. Neither did they see their avatars as fully immersed.

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• A minority of users perceived their avatars as “other than me,” immersed and something separate and apart from the user. • The meaning of presence seems to have been commingled with understandings of embodiment. A strong feeling of telepresence existed with a more mixed expression of social presence. • Most respondents perceived that their avatars remained the same over time, except that users tended to draw closer to their avatars emotionally.

Giving Back: The Avatar’s Feedback Loop Yikes! My Avatar Changed Me! Hitherto the focus has been on the avatar, and its issues related to self, embodiment, and presence. Now we turn to the user. This turn is consistent with the third theme described by Evans (2011, 2016b) (i.e., after self-exploration and embodiment experience) on the importance of physical-­world benefits and influences that emerge from the avatar/user connection. More to the point, are there feedback effects that derive from the avatar/user relationship that directly impact how the user acts and feels? Let us assume that, for whatever reason, the user does in fact decide to enter the social virtual world as a fire-breathing dragon. The user already knows what others in-world expect (go back to context and social presence). The user delivers on those expectations by predictably going about the virtual-world shooting flames from the dragon’s nostrils and charring everything in its path. Nearby avatars feel the heat and step aside. You are, after all, who you pretend to be, they understand, and that includes being a dragon. The user becomes so engrossed by the dragon that the dragon persona takes on power over the user. That is not to say the user prowls his actual-world domain breathing fire, but we do not want to ignore the possibility that “as I appear to the other, so I am,” the “other” being the user in this case. The good news is that the avatar may yield benefits to the user in the actual world that go beyond spewing fire. In the words of Yee (2014,

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p. 152), “The fact is that our avatars change us in turn.” Building on his earlier research, for example, Yee found that people in attractive avatars were inclined to choose more attractive people to meet from a selection of pictures showing all kinds of faces (Yee, 2014, p. 153). As exemplified by the following, the research on the virtual- to actual-world connection is persuasive (although it should be acknowledged that not all of it directly involves social virtual-world avatars): • Doppelgängers are effective. The transfer of benefits from the virtual to the actual world is more likely to happen if the user and the avatar are able physically to remind one of the other (Yee, 2014, p. 155; see also Murphy, 2011). • Related to the doppelgänger effect, Dean et  al. (2009) conducted a survey in Second Life on in-world and actual-world behaviors related to health and activity. Their data (2009, p.7) led to the conclusion that users with avatars that exercise in-world are more likely to exercise in the actual world (correlations that the authors were quick to admit did not necessarily show causality). Respondents interviewed by thin avatars were about twice as likely to claim that their actual-world weight/ size was about right than respondents interviewed by fat avatars, suggesting an influence on actual-world thinking by the virtual-world image. In a similar study by Stanford University researcher Jesse Fox (see Blackman, 2010), research subjects saw an avatar of themselves either running on a treadmill or loitering. The participants who saw their own avatar running were more likely to exercise on their own later than those participants who saw the loitering version of themselves. • In a separate study, Fox looked at the influence of avatars on attitudes toward women (Fox & Bailenson, 2009; Blackman, 2010). She presented male and female test subjects with a sexually suggestive female avatar, and with a second avatar dressed conservatively and behaving in a more submissive fashion. The participants were asked to complete a questionnaire after viewing the avatars. Both the male and female test subjects showed greater rape-myth acceptance after being shown the sexually forward female avatar. • Hernandez (2011) reported on research by Massey at the University of Indiana showing that research participants, after working out in a

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v­ irtual club for 12 weeks, demonstrated better “health behaviors” than a similar face-to-face group. Confidence levels, eating behaviors, and exercise habits were improved. • Evidence suggests that there are meaningful psychological benefits. In a study of a small group of virtual-world residents with actual-world disabilities, Kleban and Kaye (2015) discovered that these Second-Life residents found enhanced quality of life, self-esteem, perception of equality, actual-world rehabilitation, and self-discovery from being in-­ world. In addition, they appreciated the safe environment and the social opportunities living with avatars. • On a related note, Crary (2020) examined how involvement with a social virtual world helped patients with post-traumatic-syndrome-­ disorder (PTSD) by re-socializing and providing “therapeutic opportunities to PTSD patients in a safe, controllable, and private space where the individual’s control over trauma can be established and acted upon” (p. 134). She added that social virtual worlds may inform future PTSD treatments “by providing an anonymous, ‘safe,’ and creative theater within which people with PTSD can have options and choices to explore their behaviors and attitudes, and make inner changes that are psychologically healthy” (p. 136). • A literature is evolving on how older users (and their not-so-old avatars) achieve potential therapeutic benefits from social virtual worlds. Older users tend to have their own ways of interacting with social virtual worlds. Older users are inclined to use more conventional opening phrases, more agreement phrases, and fewer emotional phrases. They are apt to be more polite than other users (Zhang et al., 2017). Motivations to enter virtual worlds tend to focus on lifelong learning and social-interaction opportunities, overcoming for many users their initial wariness about engaging such exotic and intimidating technological settings (Smith, 2016). Trembling fingers and cognitive decline can be problematic for typing, but as Smith (2016) discovered many older adults were willing to take the plunge, their senior moments notwithstanding. Sokolec (2016) observed that two types of loss were particularly damaging to older adults in general: loss of a familiar place or home, and loss of status in the eyes of other people. While few seniors will agree that a virtual home will fully

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o­ vercome the loss of a long-time residence, a virtual place may mitigate the feelings of loss by providing a stable and attractive substitute. More pronounced, perhaps, is the impact of the virtual world on the actual-­world loss of status. It is unlikely that in a world of “age-­defying” avatars, there is anything on display that will evoke the feelings of lost status that may accompany senior status in the actual world (Johnson, 2018). • Unrelated to health, Hershfield (2011, see also Yee, 2014, p. 154) literally hijacked the bodies and faces of test subjects and put them into avatars. Half of the student subjects had avatars that reflected their actual ages; the other half were placed in avatars that predicted how they would look at age 70. Both groups were then asked to allocate a $1000 gift among various options, including a retirement account. The students who looked like 70-year-old versions of themselves placed twice as much money in retirement accounts as did the other students. The future was made “visible” to these students. Of course, the influence of the avatar on the user may not always be good, especially in terms of virtual games and so-called internet gaming disorders and addiction. It is reasonable to assume that users of social virtual worlds would not be immune from such negative impacts. On the other hand, recent work by cultural anthropologists reminds us that not all is lost and that many highly involved game players have positive consequences of gameplay that should not alarm health professionals (Snodgrass et al., 2017, p. 300; see also Snodgrass et al., 2018a, b). A full analysis of such impacts lies beyond the scope of this study.

What the Surveys Say The majority (56.2 percent) of questionnaire respondents agreed that their current avatars had changed their users in terms of how they saw and/or felt about themselves in the actual world. Less than a quarter (23.3 percent) disagreed. Low-to-moderate associations with this variable included: my current avatar is more conscientious, more extraverted, and/or less neurotic (0.48); I have become more emotionally attached to

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my current avatar (0.34); I act the way my avatar presents itself (0.31); when I see my avatar on the screen, I have a feeling of that is me over there (0.39); my avatar friendships are just as close actual-world friendships (0.39); and I have come increasingly to care for my avatar (0.38). The interview data were replete with references to how users’ avatars affected actual-world conditions, particularly in terms of confidence, people skills, certain types of practical abilities, and even some therapeutics. Key-informant Rosie Gray revealed that the range of people that she has met in the virtual world has made her more accepting of people with differences in the actual world. Aldo Stern confessed that “I handle things a lot better thanks to my sl experience.” He added that “I’m not by nature a terribly gregarious person, but with practice you … can learn to walk up to people at a rl party or a meeting and just hit the ground running.” In a similar vein, a focus-group member disclosed that she was very reserved by nature in the actual world, but in the virtual world “I am a party girl” and much more extraverted. She has carried her virtual-world experience into her actual world (except possibly for the party-girl part). Another focus-group member divulged that his virtual-world experience “has improved me in the ‘confidence’ department.” A focus-group contributor from a residential sim praised the educational benefit of her avatar: “English is not my first language but my avatar seems to be a native speaker and the English of my typist improved a lot over the years.” One role-play focus-group member reported how she was stricken with cancer and how Second Life was a form of therapy: “so for me at the moment it is a huge distraction that helps me connect with others and takes my mind out of what I am going through.”

What About Culture? Can we identify cultures in social virtual worlds? Are in-world cultures, such as they exist, different from cultures in the actual world? How does presence in a social virtual world influence differences? First, we should focus on how the concept of culture can be understood for purposes here. While there are many ways to approach a definition of culture, perhaps the best guidance related to virtual worlds comes

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from Boellstorff (2009, p. 4). The purpose of his article was to focus on the pitfalls of methodological partisanship in research on virtual worlds, but in so doing he observed that “culture is not simply the aggregate of individual personalities and dispositions” (p. 4), but more generally is a transindividual phenomenon that shapes and is shaped by those who participate in it in some fashion. Culture is not just what people do; it is also what they claim it is they do, what they believe, and the patterned yet contingent ways that social action is constituted in the context of such narrative and belief. All domains of sociality and selfhood— from gender to economics, religion to play, love to health—are emergent products of meaningful, intersectional experience. (p. 4)

This experience can occur in social virtual worlds. Virtual-world cultures may have unique expressions. Boellstorff (2009, p.  4) argued that researchers will discover subcultures or localized cultures within virtual worlds and perhaps broader cultures that transcend virtual worlds (p. 4). Writing about education using virtual worlds, White and Le Cornu (2010) commented that “Virtual worlds have a culture specific to themselves. While aspects of this parallel real-life, the overall experience of learners when they immerse themselves in these worlds can be significantly different from that of real life” (2010, p.  183; see also Bell, 2009). Paul (2009) made a point to emphasize that culture in virtual worlds may form that are more genre-specific—that is, specific to virtual-world settings—that can be defined more by shared practices across worlds than the practices of a specific location. While virtual worlds are different, they are not necessarily divorced from actual-world counterparts. Webb (2001, p. 589) wrote about how virtual cultures are responses to the interplay of “emergent” and “residual” forces, the former focusing on what is new to virtual worlds and the latter on pre-existing offline cultural phenomena. Cultural characteristics emerge in virtual worlds, yet reflect values and characteristics that are imported from actual-world cultures (see also Falvey, 2011). In the words of Webb (2001, p. 589), virtual worlds are

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formed out of the residues of cultural life and are rather complexly involved in its production, whilst at the same time breaking with established social norms, by developing distinct narrative and visual imagery. … They are loosened from the traditional organs of social conformity but at the same time fissured by off-line political and ideological values.

The expression “distinct narrative and visual imagery” is important to Webb’s analysis. While Webb was writing before the widespread appearance of highly graphics-oriented three-dimensional worlds, his thoughts about the effects of text-based communities on culture formation remain instructive. In a virtual world characterized by “dramaturgical weakness” (Webb, 2001, p. 569), where missing are equivalent expressions of intonation, pitch, facial looks, bodily signs, and even embarrassment or its anticipation (2001, p. 569), narrative styles become more important in understanding identity and culture. He proposed a framework of narrative categories, including (2001, pp. 570–580): • Wild speech: Street argot and pidgin talk, maybe “crazy talk,” with graffiti the dominant expression. • Scabrous speech: Indecent propositions and provocations, though not necessarily directly aggressive. Indicates that interpersonal restraint and accountability are often undercut in virtual-world culture. • Missionary speech: A preacher style of narrative. This is often used to communicate to virtual-world culture the stereotypes and belief systems of the wider culture. • Parodic speech: Fantasy language that is ridiculous, absurd, exaggerated, perhaps resembling a burlesque that can be comical, mocking, and trivializing. • Functionalist speech: Conveys the sense that the avatar is present, practical, and utilitarian. • Scattershot speech: Narratives that are random and haphazard. The usual cultural habits of turn-taking may be missing. The usual traits of conversation in “polite society” may be discarded. Narrative forms in virtual worlds both confirm and break with residual forms and help to identify ways in which virtual-world cultures emerge

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on their own, compensating in their electronic environments for many of the same cues and practices common in actual-world communication. Relatively few data were collected in this study regarding culture. A single questionnaire statement was offered to respondents about how their avatars felt that they were parts of a culture that was different from the one in which they lived in the physical world. An overwhelming 78.1 percent agreed. The survey was not sufficiently detailed or complete to indicate how culture was defined by respondents.

Chapter Summary and Conclusion In summary, what can we say about the avatar and its relationship to the user? Complex? Yes. Inscrutable? No. There is noteworthy overlap between the two worlds in conceptualizations of self, embodiment, presence, and other key terms. The overlap notwithstanding, the conceptual narratives augmented by survey data, lead us to make a series of observations for going forward: • Users are drawn to social virtual worlds for a variety of reasons, including curiosity about this shiny new object full of avatars, a desire for an immersive experience that takes us away from actual-world lives, personal interaction with new friends and having fun, making money, creativity in the form of building or artistic expression, education, or perhaps therapy for the actual-world user. • Without snagging ourselves in the existential thicket that greets us as we define “reality,” we can say that reality and virtuality are likely to mean the same in the digital and physical worlds (thank you, Professor Boellstorff!). • The avatar can be included in the expression of “self.” The survey expressions of self focused on how the avatar is “just me,” or the “real me.” • Expressions of self can be achieved through avatar embodiment, which can take various forms and exhibit fluctuating degrees of “distance.” The relationship can range from completely transparent to immersed, although circumstances in-world likely work against complete

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t­ ransparency or immersion. Most survey respondents saw their avatar embodiments as extensions of themselves, or “more than me.” A notable minority perceived their avatar embodiments as more immersive or “other than me.” A feeling of presence or of being there (telepresence) and part of an avatar context (social presence) accompanies, and potentially precedes, embodiment, although survey data did not always lead to clear conclusions. Part of the problem lay in the apparent tendency of respondents to commingle their conceptions of presence with those of self and embodiment. Regardless the motivation(s) for entering a virtual world, who shows up as an avatar tends, at least initially, to embody a more robust and idealized version of the actual-world person. There are exceptions, especially for role-play avatars. Regardless who shows up initially, the avatar is likely to change over time. The majority of respondents did see presence in the virtual world as separate from the actual world. The relationship between the avatar and the user is not necessarily one way. The avatar, especially its look, may in fact redound to the benefit of the user. Respondents seemed eager to share how their virtual lives had produced impacts on their actual lives. Avatars in their electronic spaces may develop a version of avatar culture, informed both by the unique circumstances of the virtual setting and that which is brought in from the actual world.

And in answer to that eternal question, “who am I if I’m not me?” Well, the avatar may really be “me,” although being “me” may not be as straightforward as we think. Being “me” in the actual world often is expressed through various masks that we don for different occasions—a veritable pull-down menu of personas that we may slip into as needed. It is not unreasonable to argue that the social virtual world adds new clicks to this pull-down menu or, in a potentially more chilling sense, creates a whole new pull-down menu for the user to cope with. Meryl McBride and Merrill Johin are “me”—part of the author’s self, acknowledging that they have been transformed to some degree by their lengthy times in the social virtual world. Are Ana and JT part of some user’s “me” somewhere? They like to think of themselves as separate and apart. Maybe they have

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their own drop-down menus. And then there is the fire-breathing dragon … volunteers to claim him, anybody?

Vignettes Vignette 3.1 Sex, Gender, and the Virtual Girl Now to the elephant in the room: sex in a virtual world? Pixel grinding? Surely not! How can avatars have sex (Fig. 3.1.1)? Avatars, of course, are limited only by the fertility of users’ imaginations, especially in a world that provides anonymity, freedom from disease, scoffing at Viagra, and no worries about unexpected parenthood. And speaking of imagination,

Fig. 3.1.1  Sex and the virtual girl. (Who knows who these people are? What better reason to make use of the bed? Source: Author. Yes, he knows these people.)

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look at the appendages on sale! Not only can avatars have sex, they can caricature it! First, the easy part. Performing sexual activities in a world like Second Life is often little more complicated than finding an agreeable partner (or maybe more than one) and the right pose balls. Pose balls floating in the air are used to animate an avatar in a certain way, perhaps to dance a waltz or perform some other scripted activity involving more than one person, or more to the point, to enact a sexual moment. Second, Second Life’s reputation as a pixelated flesh pit may be exaggerated. Wardle (2018, p. 3) cited research that indicated that an estimated “20% of inhabited land within Second Life is used for ‘sex’ and related activities.” Au (2019) gave a figure of 25 percent, with only 5 percent of revenues coming from adult activities. Gilbert et  al. (2011, p.  111) reported that 43 percent of survey participants had “a sexual experience usually, frequently or always/almost always while in Second Life [authors’ italics].” Suffice it to say that virtual-world sex involved a greater sense of abandon in terms of partners and practices than in the actual world, though was “less filled with rampant illegal and transgressive sexual practices than is often depicted” (2011, pp.  117–118; see Craft, 2012 for related findings). While the Gilbert et al.’s results appear to confirm the virtual world’s sex-obsessed status, study participants were self-selected and could not participate unless they had experienced sex in Second Life. Consequently, these findings probably overstated sexual activity in the population at large. It is noteworthy, however, that in this sexually active sample, over half of respondents had sex only occasionally or rarely—not exactly vows of chastity, but probably closer to the population as a whole. More data are needed. Regardless the level and kind of activity, the question arises whether there are actual-world consequences, good and bad, for virtual-world behavior and whether pixel sex in this regard is really so different than sex in the actual world. Returning to the Gilbert et al.’s (2011) study, participants reported that the virtual and actual worlds were psychically and physically independent of each other, with a majority of respondents suggesting benefits for their actual-world sex lives. Salter (2011, p.  1126) broached the salutary fantasy-like qualities of virtual desire and fulfillment, with the user’s imagination propelling fantasies to their next levels

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and completing the picture “in ways the graphics engine might not render.” The fantasies of lovemaking are remote in the virtual world, just as a love letter or romance novel can be in the actual world. While this distance may not exclude new questions about infidelity, the fantasies may yet carry the day. In Salter’s words (2011, p. 1134), “Virtual space offers a gateway into the collective fantasies of a species, and in that space there is the opportunity for every kind of encounter. The reality on the other side of the screen need not interfere with the fantasy.” Other research (Brookey & Cannon, 2009, p. 149), however, questioned the “liberatory perspective on gender and sexuality in cyberspace.” Maybe virtual sex is too quickly excused and accepted because it is “other” and different (see also Waskful and Martin 2010). Sex happens; but of greater human significance may be the gender-­ experimentation narratives that emerge from social virtual worlds, especially gender-swapping (see, e.g., Jenson et al., 2015 and Baldwin, 2018). Hussain and Griffiths (2008) described how 54 percent of males and 68 percent of females in their study of MMORPGs had changed gender at some point in their online experiences. Wardle (2018, p. 3) reported on results of studies that indicated that men were virtual-world transwomen a third of the time, that 23 percent of residents said that they performed a different gender, and that (according to a 2010 project) 81.1 percent had assumed a different gender at some point. In his own study Wardle (2018, p. 8) identified only 5.3 percent of respondents who changed gender. In the present study, 43 respondents were female in the actual world; whereas in the virtual world 48 avatars presented as female. For males, the numbers are 27 and 25, suggesting that two actual-world males and the three respondents that were non-binary/other in the actual world selected female avatars in the virtual world (of course, this does not take into account the possibility that some cis-females adopted male avatars). The percentage in the present study is much higher than that suggested by a U.S. figure of approximately 0.4 percent of the population that is transgender, as indicated in a 2017 study (see Meerwijk & Sevelius, 2017). The results are similar to those generated by Pearce et al. (2015). They found 2.3 percent of respondents selected a transgender option which, while small, was nearly eight times higher than the national average of 0.3

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percent at the time of their study (2015, p. 15). Social virtual worlds offer inviting platforms for gender exploration and expression. Why is there gender-swapping? Because it’s fun; or because I’m curious; or let’s try it out. It can also be revealing. In a humorous anecdote, Wardle (2018, p. 8) reported on the reaction of a female who presented as a male: “Playing a male is very complicated. You have to get past the jock/pretty boy/not a jock thing. It seems to scar males for life, and it affects male avatars too. Also, males have detachable penises. You have to buy one and then figure out the whole etiquette for wearing it.” Who says social virtual worlds do not provide unique experiences? Again, why is there gender-swapping? Because it’s important. It is unclear the degree to which gender tourism or curiosity contribute to the high gender-swapping percentages in the social virtual world, but at least for some online participants it is serious business. In a moving testimonial, Janiuk (2014) shared that online worlds provided a “needed escape into reality,” and that it is the physical body that “feels dishonest to us, the character’s gender is real.” Gender-swapping in the virtual world is where we can “create an avatar that represents how we see ourselves.” The social virtual world provides a safe space for gender expression of all types (see Elund, 2013 for gay expression). In online worlds generally, and social virtual worlds specifically, male users like Janiuk tend to gender-swap more than female users. Clinnin (2013, p. 6) suggested that much of this imbalance could be ascribed to rejection of patriarchy and the expectations of “hegemonic masculinity”—that is, societal beliefs about “men-as-men” with solid bodies, masculine speech, a more willing embrace of violence, and the eschewing of intimate friendships. Maybe that is why, in Mitra and Golz’s (2016) study, male participants were less likely than female participants to return to their original gender after experimenting with swapping. Regardless the role of hegemonic masculinity, abundant anecdotal evidence exists from life in the social virtual world that many transwomen are authentic expressions of what is difficult or impossible to achieve in the actual world (and the same can be said for transmen, though perhaps less often). Male-to-female gender-swappers in the social world often are seen as dishonest and manipulative by other users and are subjected to derision and dismissal (Clinnin, 2013, p. 14). Rationalizations for this response

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include a betrayal of trust that comes from finding out that a friend is pretending to be somebody that he/she is not, a violation that may be revealed elsewhere (by the way, use of “pretend” should be considered fraught in a world of role play); gender is considered to be a “naturalized and irrefutable part of the self, therefore to deny one’s gender is to essentially be lying about the self ” (Clinnin, 2013, p. 14); and gender-­swapping implies homosexual tendencies of some sort, somewhere, especially to the strictly heterosexual gender-swapper’s sex partner. Not everybody in the virtual world (and this increasingly is the case) embraces these feelings, but for those users who do, confession by the swapper can produce an awkward moment. The same feelings tend to be less apparent for men who present as different races and/or nonhuman beings, and potentially for women who present as men. In brief, sex and gender are significant issues in the social virtual world, perhaps giving the “virtual girl” a whole new meaning.

Vignette 3.2 the Ultimate Reality: Cemeteries Where do pixels go when they die? Is it true that old pixels never die, they are just reconstituted? It may be that they are reconstituted as memories that are just as “real” as in the actual world. Lena Anthony is the creator and manager of a special Second-Life place: the Second Afterlife Cemetery. She presents herself, appropriately, as a ghost-like figure—hovering, her feet never touching the ground, her wispy white visage blending in with many of the memorials. She founded the Second Afterlife Cemetery in late 2007. She has 149 spaces, all of which are spoken for. The memorials range from simple stones to multifeatured reminiscences of the departed. She remarked that the most common special request is for a bench and a tree (both of which, of course, only require a click of the mouse in a virtual world) (Fig. 3.2.1). The souls remembered have various origins. Lena remarked that “Many have partners or someone in their family in SL who passed IRL [in real life]. We get really close to people here. And they do become family. People fall in love. We want to remember.” A memorial may be for an actual-world loved one or often for a death of the same person in both

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Fig. 3.2.1  Welcome to the Second Afterlife Cemetery. (Lena Anthony (hovering, to the left) and Meryl McBride at the Second Afterlife Cemetery welcome sign. Source: Picture by author.)

worlds. Sometimes, the user knows that he/she is not coming back to Second Life and erects a memorial to the abandoned avatar, irrespective of the fact that the user is alive and well (Fig. 3.2.2). These memorials are not silly or trivial. They speak to the importance of relationships between users and avatars, and among avatars. Of course, when a death happens in the actual world, the user’s avatar also normally “dies.” But here is where the similarities may stop. In the words of Gibson (2017, p. 236), “it is a connected death but it is not the same death nor is it just one life that is deceased.” Grief may be expressed not just for the physical person, but for the person’s electronic alter ego by avatar family and friends. The grief acknowledges that the avatar loss is real and that the avatar was in some way very “real.” As concluded by Gibson (2017, p. 236), “the avatar—as a project of the self and projected self—is a life form(ed) that, through memorialization, is marked with the value of being meaningful and real [italics in original].” The Second Afterlife Cemetery gives a whole new meaning to what is “real” in a virtual world and a new understanding to “until death do us part.”

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Fig. 3.2.2  Memorials at the Second Afterlife Cemetery. (Source: Picture by Author)

 ignette 3.3 Walled Off: The Practical Meaning V of Immersion Ana is an example of an avatar-user engagement that may be increasingly rare in social virtual worlds: complete immersion. Practically speaking, what is immersion like? Here are some questions that she has been asked. How does she define immersion? She sees immersion as truly separate and apart, or a walled-off existence (Fig.  3.3.1). Perhaps she is like the “phenomenal I” described by Veerapen, a symbiotic relationship in which she performs her own identity within the virtual world—similar to Wardle’s “real” avatar, or perhaps Waterworth and Riva’s “distributed embodiment.” Yes, if the actual-world house catches fire, her driver will unceremoniously dump her on the way out, so separation is not always complete in the moment. But the user can always return to the relationship. A key point is that other avatars’ users do not know anything about her user. Why immersion? Jungian psychologists like to use the term “individuation” to describe the process of bringing together all aspects of the self

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Fig. 3.3.1  The immersed Ana “walled” off from the actual world. (Source: Picture by author)

(both public and hidden) to achieve wholeness. The immersed Ana is exploring those aspects of self that she does not want exposed to the glowering stares of others who may be disapproving or otherwise judgmental. It is the process of self-exploration described by Evans. She desires to perform an identity that goes beyond the masks of her user, potentially those in terms of values, attitudes, experiences, and even gender. Is immersion lonely? Generally not, but it can be. Ana interacts with people everywhere in Second Life and, in some cases, has developed close friendships with other equally immersed avatars. It is all part of social presence. On the other hand, conversations can be difficult with avatars who are open about their users and actual-world circumstances. She has nothing to add about the kids, the dog, mowing the lawn, and can feel a distance resulting from her unwillingness to share equally. Is there leakage? Inevitably, some actual-world information will get out. It is hard not only to keep a secret but to enact a secret, without making reference to the user’s “actual” existence. If the conversation is actual-­ world politics, for example, it is difficult for the avatar to engage in the discussion without “leaking” its actual-world political leanings.

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How does Ana react when other people discover who her user is? Ana generally tries to maintain the separate-and-apart status, but she has felt the need on occasion to “spill the beans” about her actual world. If she trusts the other user and knows that he/she will respect what she is enacting, her reaction will be positive. On occasion she has felt compelled to confirm the suspicions of another avatar, often the result of its prying, which has left her feeling compromised. Does she feel “deceptive”? Deception is one of the most fraught terms in a social virtual world. Its meaning can be highly user-specific. For example, the man who comes in-world to have avatar sex with a beautiful avatar woman may feel badly deceived if he discovers that the avatar’s user is a man. The question becomes, would he feel as deceived if he discovered that the lithe young avatar’s user was in fact a frumpy septuagenarian woman? At least now she is a woman! What about a woman of a different race/ethnicity? What about a woman taller than he is? Another man may not care so long as he doesn’t learn the “truth.” Still another man may never care, regardless the “truth.” What about if the user of the female avatar is transgender and the avatar represents “her” true self—is that “deception”? What about the “therapeutic” deception that comes with an avatar involved in the user’s self-reflection process? The fact is that most avatars are deceptive in some fashion and the user who denies this fact may ultimately be deceiving himself more than the other way around. With the exception of a small number of issues, Ana no longer worries about “deception.”

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4 Is Place Still a Place in Social Virtual Worlds?

Now that Ana and JT know who they are, if not “me,” we can ask about their in-world places. Both Ana and JT live in homes, work in offices, socialize in communities, and belong to cultures in virtual worlds. It is fair to say that most regular participants in social virtual worlds do the same. While reasons for joining virtual worlds may vary, identities and immersion levels of individual avatars may diverge, and avatars may interact with their contexts in different ways, what Ana and JT have in common with all other avatars is that they are functioning in space and occupying places. Yes, it is all electronic in nature, and agreed, it is tethered in some fashion to the actual world, but these spaces and places still exist, especially places. The purpose of this chapter is to examine the meaning of “place” in social virtual worlds, focusing once again on the places of Second Life. As before, we will be guided by the study questions listed in Chap. 1: How do geographers view place? How can geographical points of view be used to inform how place is defined in a social virtual world? Can we classify place in a social virtual world like Second Life? While both space and place in virtual worlds require a reset (if not rewiring) of our thoughts, understanding space is more problematic than © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 M. L. Johnson, Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-8626-9_4

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place (as noted in Chap. 2). There may or may not be mappable content, and/or space may take on a form that is mainly a computer coding abstraction. Space is easily passed over, passed through, or otherwise overcome in most virtual worlds. Place is a different matter. Place gives context and form to the embodiment experience and texture to life in-world. Place is everywhere in the virtual world, regardless what the map looks like. We are reminded of Boellstorff’s (2008, p. 91) affirmation that “place, above all else, makes virtual worlds what they are.” At the same time, we can appreciate Cresswell’s lament (2015, p. 145) that virtual places “seem disembodied, overly passive, and unreal.” What we have become accustomed to calling “place,” he added “was being eradicated or radically transformed” (Cresswell, 2015: 145). While his lament may be understandable, virtual places may not be quite as inscrutable and unwelcoming as he intimated. Our task in this chapter is to understand how virtual-world places may be similar to, and different than, actual-­ world counterparts—even radically transformed—and how we can relate to them in light of our actual-world understandings and virtual-world experiences.

What Is Place? The Geographer’s Engagement, Generally As any beginning college geography student learns, geographers have a long history of investigating “space,” “place,” and the distributions and interactions found therein. We need to look no further than the typical college introduction to geography textbook. Dahlman and Renwick (2014, p. 4) wrote, for example, that geography is “the study of the interaction of all physical and human phenomena at individual places and of how interactions among places form patterns and organize larger spaces.” Similar types of statements can be found elsewhere (see, for example, Pulsipher et al., 2017, p. 3).

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Cresswell (2015, p. 1) opened his landmark geographical treatment of place (which guides much of the discussion that follows) by declaring that geography is traditionally about places, while acknowledging that the study of place is not the exclusive domain of geographers: “it is a concept that travels quite freely between disciplines and the study of place benefits from an interdisciplinary approach” (Cresswell, 2015, p. 1; see also Holloway & Hubbard, 2001; Hubbard et al., 2009). He cited the support of Malpas (2010), who wrote that the concept of place may be key to twenty-first-century interdisciplinary research in the arts, humanities, and social sciences (Cresswell, 2015, p. 1). Cresswell observed (p. 1) that such an ecumenical perspective may be good for geography: Given geography’s long history of grappling with the issue of place, the relatively recent resurgence in interest in place across disciplines and in the wider world presents an opportunity for geography to situate itself at the center of a lively interdisciplinary debate. Discussions of place are popping up everywhere.

He cited examples from creative writers (and their re-enchantment with place), psycho-geography, nature-writing, artistic expressions, the tactics of the Occupy movement, and even the electronic spaces of geographic information sciences (pp. 1–4). Moreover, probably because of its varied intellectual journeys, the concept of place can claim numerous parents and can be associated with a variety of meanings. The fact is that place is a contested concept and what it is that “place” means is very much the subject of decades of debate in human geography as well as philosophy, planning, architecture, and any number of disciplines. To some in planning, place refers to the built environment. To ecologists, a place is rooted in a distinctive ecology—as a bioregion. To a philosopher, place is a way of being-in-the-world. (2015, p. 19)

We see place at least implicated, if not made explicit, in the thinking of geographers going back some time (see the references in Martin & James, 1993). Recent geographical conceptualizations of place have veered in different and challenging directions. Cresswell (2009, p. 169) observed

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early that “the commonsense uses of the word place belie its conceptual complexity” (Cresswell, 2009, p. 169). There are many questions to be addressed. How does “materiality” come into play? Can a place be a “place” void of “meaning”? If not, what are the roles of personal and shared meanings? Is place always a “home”? How is a place “practiced” by its inhabitants? How are “relational” ties important? What is the role of “mobilities,” the human and material flows that make a place dynamic and continually becoming? What about the effects of social structure, social construction, and power? Can a place be purely local and, if not, how do we understand the concept of place in terms of the friction-­ diminishing effects of technology and the larger processes of globalization? (see the comments of Cresswell, 2009, 2015). Undaunted by the conceptual complexities, Cresswell pressed ahead with two helpful starting points. He provided a shorthand conceptualization of place as a combination of the meaningful, material, and practiced (Cresswell & Hoskins, 2008; Cresswell, 2009), supplemented by a more expansive review of the three levels at which place historically has been approached by geographers (2015, pp. 55–56): • A descriptive approach. This approach may be the most “traditional” of the three, and certainly is the most “common-sense,” with its view of the world made up of discrete pieces of real estate—that is, places— that reflect a distinctiveness and particularity. This is the view in which geographers who embraced a more ideographic view of the world (think Hartshorne here) would feel at home and may remain a source of comfort for many regional geographers today (2015, p. 56). • A social constructionist approach. This approach may still reflect an interest in the distinctiveness and particularity of individual locations but is more interested in how a place acquired its distinctiveness and particularity. The focus is on general social forces (e.g., capitalism, Marxism, feminism, and poststructuralism), and how these forces play a role in the construction of place (Cresswell, 2015, p. 56; see as an example Harvey, 1996). • A phenomenological approach. Humanistic geographers, led by Tuan, Buttimer, Seamon, and Relph, among others (see, e.g., Tuan, 1977, 1975, 1990; Relph, 1976; Buttimer & Seamon, 1980; Seamon, 1979),

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took the lead in establishing place as a central concept in geographic thinking (Cresswell, 2015, p. 35). There is a primal sense of place, an affective bond between people and their places. It was a much more philosophical approach than those of the social constructionists and regional geographers already described. This classification of approaches, while handy, should not be interpreted to mean that the categories are mutually exclusive or even complete (acknowledged by Cresswell, himself, 2015, p. 56). For purposes of this study, we review some of the major geographical conceptualizations related to place, keeping front-and-center Cresswell’s guidance, with the goal of building a framework that relates most closely to social virtual worlds. We are less drawn to pushing back the frontiers of place studies than to adapting existing place understandings to social virtual worlds.

The Geographer’s Engagement, Specifically After this brief introduction to the geographer’s engagement with place, generally, we move to an admittedly abridged perusal of specific geographical approaches that may offer special relevance to the study of social virtual worlds.

Agnew’s Three Elements of Place Agnew (1987) provided what, for many students of “place,” has become a starting point for discussion. He described three major elements of place: locale, location, and sense of place (1987, p. 28). Locale refers to the “settings in which social relations are constituted”; location is the “the geographical area encompassing the settings for social interaction as defined by social and economic processes operating at a wider scale; and sense of place he explained as the ‘structure of feeling’—a person’s connection with home, work, school, church and other institutions that can create the sense of place, both socially and geographically” (p. 28). Agnew continued by adding that “Place, therefore, refers to discrete if ‘elastic’

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areas in which settings for the constitution of social relations are located and with which people can identify.” He emphasized that each part is related to the other (Agnew, 1987, p. 28): A key tenet is that the local social worlds of place (locale) cannot be understood apart from the objective macro-order of location and the subjective territorial identity of sense of place. They are all related; if ultimately locale is the most central element sociologically it must be grounded geographically. In other words, locale is the core geosociological element in place, but it is structured by the pressures of location and gives rise to its own sense of place that may in certain circumstances extend beyond the locality.

That is to say, the sense of place is not always “local,” in the strict sense of the word, and can be projected onto regions and nations, leading to nationalistic expressions reflecting a larger and grander sense of place (Agnew, 1987, p. 28).

Tuan: Home Sweet Home and the Meaning of Place It would be difficult to identify anyone who is more interested than Tuan in the sense of place described by Agnew or the importance of meaning discussed by Cresswell. Indeed, he formed an important pillar in Cresswell’s phenomenological or humanistic approach. While Tuan’s writings are dated, they still resonate—even in an age of electronic worlds. Perhaps it may be said that Tuan provided the “soul” of place understanding, regardless the era. While it is difficult here to touch on all of Tuan’s work, several themes are especially relevant to our understanding of virtual-­world places. For Tuan, place is about “experience.” He observed that experience is “a cover-all term for the various modes through which a person knows his world” (Tuan, 1975, p. 151). He added that “Place is a center of meaning constructed by experience” (Tuan, 1975, p.  152). The “experience” of experience can involve the senses and be a passive, inward encounter— for example, fragrances and tastes. The inward encounter may be exposed to thought and projected to the public through language, pictures, and

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maps, whatever; but the quality of the experience remains inward and private. In actuality, experience occupies a middle position between knowing about points in a spatial system, on the one hand, and the strong visceral feelings about a place, the inward encounter, on the other hand, the former being too remote from sensory experience and the latter presupposing a rootedness that is unrealistic to expect (1975, p.  152). Indeed, Tuan did not dismiss the importance to place of the “geometrical” and “ideographic” perspectives that influenced the discipline at the time of his writing, but suggested that experience be added as a third perspective (1975, p.  165). In brief, a place can be viewed on a map, perhaps as part of a hierarchy of central places, and it can be examined for its uniqueness; but to “remain a place it has to be lived in … To live in a place is to experience it, to be aware of it in the bones as well as with the head. Place, at all scales from the armchair to the nation, is a construct of experience; it is sustained not only by timber, concrete, and highways, but also by the quality of human awareness” (1975, p. 165). For Tuan, place is about “home” (see Tuan, 1991a, pp.  101–102). Home is a broad and elastic concept, in the eyes of Tuan (p. 101). There is clearly a material component. People must understand the layout of the home and how it provides comfort and refuge. But a home is more than a structure; it has conceptual and symbolic content. In his own words, a “home is a unit of space organized mentally and materially to satisfy a people’s real and perceived basic biosocial needs and, beyond that, their higher aesthetic-political aspirations” (p.  102). The home is a primary center of meaning and field of care, a place of attachment in which “we can openly and comfortably admit our frailty and our bodily needs” (Tuan, 1975, p. 154). For Tuan, place is about “language.” The most important and relevant (and potentially understated at the time of this writing) symbolic system in the creation of place is that of language (Tuan, 1991a, b GR, p. 102). Language is powerful. He wrote that “Speech is a component of the total force that transforms nature into a human place” (Tuan, 1991b Annals, p.  685–686). He embraced a “narrative-descriptive” approach to the analysis of the effects of language, which eschews the explicit formulation of theory in favor of presenting observers the opportunity:

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to appreciate the range and color of life and world. Their [scholars’] best works tend to make a reader feel the intellectual pleasure of being exposed to a broad and variegated range of related facts and of understanding them a little better (though still hazily), rather than, as in specialized theoretical works, the intellectual assurance of being offered a rigorous explanation of a necessarily narrow and highly abstracted segment of reality.

Language helps in the appreciation of the range and color of life and in so doing contributes to the making of place. Myths and storytelling which, in the story, weave tales in the context of observable landscape features, solidify a people’s bond with place. New locations or territories are converted to places through creation rituals, as, for example, when the sailors of Christopher Columbus knelt in thanksgiving and planted a flag in the New World. Naming helps to establish place, often confers meaning on a location, and may convey a message in the process.

Pred and the Contest Between Structure and Agency Place is not a static creation. It is dynamic and reflects the results of flows and processes—“mobilities.” Early on, Pred (1984, 1990; see also Thrift, 1983; Cresswell, 2015, pp. 65–67) argued for a dynamic vision of place— something more than a piece of real estate with buildings and people on it. Pred defined place as something beyond “frozen scenes for human activity,” but as a “historically contingent process that emphasizes institutional and individual practices as well as the structural features with which those practices are interwoven” (Pred, 1984, p. 280). Informed by his integration of time-geography and structuration theory (particularly as expressed by Giddens), Pred described place as constantly becoming within the confines and/or under the influence of local and global institutions, the spatial division of labor, power structures, social structures and cultural mores, individual biographies, and nature—each transforming, and being transformed by, the other. In Pred’s words (p. 282), place is a process whereby the reproduction of social and cultural forms, the formation of biographies, and the transformation of nature ceaselessly become one another at

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the same time that time-space specific activities and power relations ceaselessly become one another … The components of the theory are universal in the sense that they are inextricably interwoven with one another in the becoming of every place or region. However, the ways in which they are interwoven are not subject to universal laws, but vary with historical circumstances.

In brief, place is complex and always changing in response to a wide array of forces—it is always “becoming.” Pred conceptualized place in terms of the flows or mobilities that are internal to the place (Cresswell, 2015, 62).

 on-representational Theories: All About Embodiment N and Everyday Experience “Non-representational” theory provides a similar foundational framing for understanding virtual-world place. We want to avoid delving too deeply into the philosophical origins and subsequent trajectories of non-­ representational thought (see Cadman, 2009 for help here), lest we spend the rest of this study in that effort; on the other hand, we need sufficiently to distill its essence to guide us in understanding virtual place. The focus of non-representational theory is on understanding “how life takes shape and gains expression in shared experiences, everyday routines, fleeting encounters, embodied movements, precognitive triggers, practical skills, affective intensities, enduring urges, unexceptional interactions and sensuous dispositions” Lorimer (2005, p. 84). Nobody can beat the parsimony of Thrift’s (2008, p. 2) statement that non-representational theory for geographers is about “the geography of what happens [italics in original].” He stressed that the object of enquiry was “what is present in experience” (2008, p. 2) and based his book on the “leitmotif of movement in its many forms” (2008, p. 5). He introduced seven tenets of non-representational theory: capturing the flow of everyday life; focusing on modes of perception that are resolutely anti-­ biographical and pre-individual; concentrating on practices, or those “material bodies of work or styles that have gained enough stability over time, through, for example, the establishment of corporeal routines and

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specialized devices, to reproduce themselves” (2008, p. 8); giving equal weight to “things” with which the body co-evolves in a particular place (2008, pp. 9–10); acknowledging the importance of non-representational theory as “experimental,” with a focus on the performing arts; becoming in touch with the full range of registers of thought by stressing affect and sensation (p. 12); and not forgetting the importance of space as a variety of assemblages, a well-structured pre-reflective world, and an inhabitable map (p.  16). In a somewhat more condensed treatment of non-­ representational theory, Cadman (2009, p.  456; see also Anderson & Harrison, 2010) noted that Thrift attempted to alert geographers to the “embodied and performative nature of practice, much of which subsists prior to reflexive or cognitive thought.” In other words, the “background” is important, including the background that we may not know about or with which we interact with reflexively. Anderson and Harrison emphasized that (2010, p. 7) “While we do not consciously notice it, we are always involved in and caught up with whole arrays of activities and practices. Our conscious reflections, thoughts, and intentions emerge from and move with this background ‘hum’ of on-going activity.” In brief, non-representational theory emphasizes events and practices, or people doing things, that lead to the creation of places (see Cresswell, 2015, p. 69). Not everybody greeted the non-presentational project with enthusiasm. Cadman (2009, p. 456) remarked that “At its most bold, nonrepresentational theory aims to overturn the very constitution of geographical knowledge production … [It seeks] to engage and present (rather than represent) the undisclosed and sometimes undisclosable nature of everyday practice” (2009, p.  456). In terms of research methods, non-­ representational theory emphasizes describing and presenting rather than diagnosing and representing, which offers limited methodological options (2009, p.  461). Furthermore, the relative importance of non-­ representational theory does not remain uncontested. Cultural geographers are having second thoughts. In a recent article, Anderson (2019, p. 1120) wrote that “Cultural geography is once again concerned with representations. Over 20 years since the emergence of non-­representational theories, the sub-discipline is in the midst of a renewed attention to the work that representations do; to the material-affective liveliness of images,

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words, and art works as things in the world which incite, move, anger, transform, delight, enchant or otherwise affect.”

Entrikin: The “Subject” and Place In a related vein, Entrikin (2011) addressed an embodiment theme in his discussion about the relationship between philosophy and geography. He argued that the “self ” or “subject” has emerged as an important part of understanding place. The subject is a reflexive and fully dimensional geographical agent, “unlike the one-dimensional geological agent of early-­ twentieth-­ century geography or the economically rational actor of mid-twentieth-century spatial analysis” (p. 91). This more complex actor has called into being a more complicated notion of place. “The dominant meaning of place has changed from a location or a position in space to a complex relation of self and environment” (p. 91). This fully dimensional geographical agent acts in the world, either individually or collectively, as a place maker and transformer of landscapes. Each role draws together subject and object, culture and nature; each transforms space into place and nature into human landscapes. These worlds are created out of natural environments by imposing social rules and meanings.

He added that places are created as tools for human projects that do not occur in empty space, but projects that adjust to already existing symbolic and material conditions. In addition (and echoing comments made elsewhere in this chapter), these projects are “frequently altered or undermined by conflicting social and natural processes as well as influenced by existing webs of power relations. They are created by authoritarian decree as well as by democratic consensus, by brute force as well as by the ethics of care” (p. 91).

Bringing Together as Assemblages From a preoccupation with embodiment, experience, and meaning in understanding place, we turn to an approach that focuses on

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“assemblages” of a wide range of phenomena which, in the eyes of some scholars, may serve as a reaction or sequel to non-representational approaches. In the words of Müller (2015, p. 27): If language, representation and discourse were the pet concepts of the 1990s, assemblage, actor-networks and materiality might well be those of the 2000s. From geography’s preoccupation with meaning in the wake of the culture turn in the late 1980s, the pendulum has come full circle with a return to a concern for materiality—objects, bodies and matter. Calls for rematerializing geography have sounded throughout the sub-disciplines.

The assemblage concept can be traced back to the ideas of Deleuze and Guattari (1987)  and, more recently, DeLanda  (2006) (see Cresswell, 2015, p.  52; Anderson & McFarlane, 2011; Müller 2015; Muller & Schurr, 2016). The concept has found homes in archaeology, ecology, and art history, and has received expression among geographers in terms of “regional,” “building,” “adaptation,” and “geopolitical social” assemblages (see Anderson & McFarlane, 2011, p. 124). Regardless its provenance and the manner of its deployment among geographers, the assemblage concept has much to offer in understanding places. Before reviewing the assemblage concept further, we are reminded by Müller and Schurr (2016) that geographers often conflate assemblage theory with a conceptual cousin, actor-network theory (see Latour, 2005), when in fact they reflect different origins. Their approaches, on the other hand, have much to offer each other (a comparison of which is beyond the scope of this study). Müller and Schurr (2016) argued that geographers should reach out to the possibilities of cross-fertilization between the two approaches, embracing especially the more empirical bent of actor-network theory. In the eyes of Cresswell (2015, p. 52) the assemblage concept involves an attempt to “gather” things, emotions, people, and so forth. This assemblage process is built on a relationship between the inside of a place where gathering occurs and the outside from which things are gathered. Earlier, Anderson and McFarlane (2011, p. 124) observed that the term is often used to “emphasise emergence, multiplicity and indeterminacy, and connects to a wider redefinition of the socio-spatial in terms of the

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composition of diverse elements into some form of provisional sociospatial formation.” More precisely (building on DeLanda 2006), assemblages are: composed of heterogeneous elements that may be human and non-human, organic and inorganic, technical and natural. In broad terms, assemblage is, then, part of a more general reconstitution of the social that seeks to blur divisions of social-material, near-far and structure-agency … [D]eploying the term assemblage enables us to remain deliberately open as to the form of the unity, its durability, the types of relations and the human and non-­ human elements involved.

Müller’s (2015, p. 28) later statement distills the essence of assemblage as “a mode of ordering heterogeneous entities so that they work together for a certain time.” He added (2015, pp. 28–29) that assemblages are relational—arrangements of different entities to form a whole that is more than the sum of its parts; productive, that is, of new territorial organizations, behaviors, expressions, actors, and realities; heterogeneous—no assumptions are made about what can be included in the relationships, indeed, everything including the kitchen sink; in various states of territorialization; and have a corporeal component (e.g., things, qualities) (see Anderson & McFarlane, 2011, p. 125).1 Two axes (referring to Deleuze and Guattari (1987), in Anderson & McFarlane, 2011, p. 125) help to set out the assemblage approach. The first axis is “between a machinic assemblage of desire and a collective assemblage of enunciation.” The “desired” end of the axis refers to a collection of qualities, things, and relations; whereas the “enunciation” end denotes languages, words, and meanings (see Anderson & McFarlane, 2011, p. 125). This same axis may also be viewed as reflecting material (locale, landscape) and expressive (cultural) existences in the assemblage process (from DeLanda in Cresswell, 2015, p. 53). The second axis shows “(re)territorialization” on the one end and “deterritorialization” on the other end (Anderson & McFarlane, 2011, p.  126). For every territory created as the heterogeneous parts are brought together, new  Müller (2015, p. 28) was resistant to the use of assemblage “theory,” preferring “concept.”

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configurations appear on the scene that may modify or destroy the existing order. The result is a deterritorialization of the original territorialization that may lead to a reterritorialization. Duffy and Stojanovic (2018), using Scottish demographic data, confirmed and built on earlier thinking about how assemblages come to life and evolve. They wrote about “emergence,” “de−/territorialization,” “de−/ coding,” and “contingency,” which (save de−/coding) we examine here. The process of “emergence” leads to the building of the identity of a given assemblage as a gathering of things (Duffy & Stojanovic, 2018, p.  4). Emergence is “recurrent,” a slow replacement in which “the capacities of the whole are realized through the mobilization of relations and resources” (2018, p. 4, citing DeLanda 2006; Dittmer, 2014). Territorialization and deterritorialization processes serve to stabilize and re-form the assemblage and its identity (Duffy & Stojanovic 2018, p.  4). Stabilization results from removing some of the heterogeneity of the relations that define the assemblage or in some way adding clarity to the boundaries of the assemblage, but such stabilization is seldom permanent. Anderson and McFarlane (2011, p. 126) wrote that: Assemblages always ‘claim’ a territory as heterogeneous parts are gathered together and hold together. But this can only ever be a provisional process: relations may change, new elements may enter, alliances may be broken, new conjunctions may be fostered. Assemblages are constantly opening up to new lines of flight, new becomings.

Perhaps territorialization and deterritorialization may be seen as a new application of the geographer’s centrifugal and centripetal forces. Duffy and Stojanovic’s (2018, p. 4) understanding of “contingency … discards the assumption that a particular cause will always have the same effect, or will always produce the same outcome. Causes are understood as events (that are necessary but not sufficient for change). They are disturbed by other contingent internal and external happenings.” They added that the manner in which contingency works over space and time is a reflection of the nature of the practices and the parts of the assemblage. Likewise, assemblages have an immaterial component that addresses meaning and affect, not unlike that which Tuan and Agnew

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conceptualized, above. We need not repeat that which has already been written in this regard, but Duff (2010) offered a valuable amplification of the variable significance of meaning attached to place. He wrote about “the feel, and emotional resonance of place” (p. 881). In addition, “every affect is experienced both as a particular feeling state and as a distinctive variation in one’s willingness or capacity to act in response to that state (italics in original)” (p. 882). Building on Casey (2001), Duff argued for a distinction between thick places and thin places. The former offer experiences that are deeper, richer, more absorbing, and that present opportunities for personal enrichment. Thick places enhance an individual’s feelings of meaning and belonging. Thick places are “made as much as they are discovered; and they are made in, and of, affect and practice.” Thick places are, according to Duff (2010, p. 882), more than a concatenation of disjunctive feeling states. The “affective atmospheres created in thick places furnish an array of resources useful for the realization of specific experiences, ambitions and capacities.” A person can sense the home, as described above, as such a thick place, along with other settings that have a warming effect, offer contentment, provide some sort of enrichment, and are memorable. Thin places, on the other hand, have less rigor and substance—nothing to attach the person to a place and they offer no memorable or resonant experience of the place. They have no unique qualities or features, or local specificity. That which is unique, resonant, and memorable is dumbed down, in a sense to, in the words of Duff (p. 886), create a “fungible uniformity.” While home may offer the meaning of a thick place, airport terminals, shopping malls, and fast-food outlets suggest the fungible uniformity of thin places. Thin places can be transformed into thick places through an “affective engagement” (p. 886) with place. Affective engagement captures an emergent force or intensity from the assembling of bodies (defined in a general sense, referring to human and nonhuman entities), which are autonomous in the sense that “they reside neither in individual places nor in individual bodies but rather in the dynamic and relational interaction of places and bodies” (Duff, 2010, p. 886). To demonstrate his points, Duff examined affective engagement using groups of teenagers on walking tours in Vancouver, British Columbia, tracing the relational and material aspects of their place-making, and

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focusing on meaning and belonging in the way that was understood by his study subjects (2010, p. 888). It was a struggle for the students to identify those settings in which they could carve out thick places—particularly places offering privacy for the individual or the individual’s social cluster—and often these places were niches in public sites, at home, or sites that supported specific social activities and pastimes (2010, p.  889). Students searched for those sites which later would become places, such that they were affected “by place” before being affected “in place” through their practices and habits (2010, p. 892). The students were deeply affected by the places they identified and encountered—their practices, activities, the people—and often came away feeling a “rush.” Not every encounter with the same place created the same rush or thrill. It depended on, among other things, the student’s mood and the nature of the setting (2010, p. 891). These thick places reflected a “memorialization” process, involving the deposition of “subjectivity, memory, and purpose,” or the “embedding of affect in place” (2010, p. 892). Duff wrote (2010, p. 892) about how thick places “leave behind affective traces of lived intensity, awaiting reactivation in practice and interaction.” In effect, thick places possess a storehouse of memories and feelings that serve to make places full of meaning. Duff (2010, p.  893) concluded from his research that “Place-making has long been regarded as an important determinant of young people’s experience of belonging and purpose … To feel connected to place is to experience a sense of belonging in place (italics in original) that itself generates resources of immense value in the promotion of health and well-being.” In other words, thick places are important (see Vignette 4.1). Müller and Schurr (2016, p. 219) were correct when they acknowledged that “Assemblage as a concept is not straightforward to define, particularly because it is dense and intertextual, and something of a culmination of previous works, building on multiple lines of thinking Deleuze and Guattari had developed since the early 1970s.” We can rely, again, on Cresswell (2015, p. 53) to make this complexity more accessible by means of a familiar illustration, the home: The place where you live is clearly a particular place. It is also a gathering of things, memories, stories, and practices. It includes doors and windows,

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floor and ceilings. It also includes appliances, photos, bookshelves, the food in the fridge and the notes on the door. All of these things make it a unique place—a unique assemblage. And yet it is different every day. The food gets eaten and replaced. The notes on the fridge door change. Even the wood that forms the floors, doors, and window frames is slowly eroding. Occasionally it is replaced. It is also the case that many of the parts that make up your home could be removed and used in another home. Things such as doors and fridges tend to be mass-produced. But still it is the assemblage that is your place—your home. It is a discrete thing that is made up from the relation between parts that are always changing. All places can be thought of in this way.

Adding to the life of the home, and to the stability of a particular location, are forces that are both human and institutional (e.g., legal structures, landlords), and not human (e.g., forces of nature that can destroy what is built). The assemblage and its spatial footprint may last for a while, but ultimately are not immutable. In this context, we should not overlook the “throwntogetherness” advocated by Massey (Massey, 2005; for additional expressions, see Lagendijk et  al., 2011; Gorman-Murray, 2016; Griffin, 2018). For Massey, the mix that creates a progressive sense of place includes elements related to place as process, place as defined by the outside, place as a site of multiple identities and histories, and place as uniquely defined by its interactions—all “throwntogether” (Cresswell, 2015, p. 108).

Place and Scale Are virtual places multi-scalar? Ana’s house is one of many houses in a multi-sim region. The region contains an elaborate residential community sporting several European architectural styles over multiple sims. The community is part of thousands of sims in the larger Second-Life universe. Most discussions of place include a scale component (see, for example, Agnew, 1987). Often, larger regions attempt to cultivate the types of meaning associated with local places. Political geographers, in particular, note how the “home” metaphor—that all-important starting point for place and source of special meaning and connection for writers

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like Tuan—are consistently appropriated at larger scales, as in “home-­ town,” national “homeland,” or even “home planet” (see Flint & Taylor, 2018, p. 303). They argued that the term “nation,” especially, “is constituted as an ‘imagined community’, and this is what makes the homeland a place” (p. 303). Otherwise different and disconnected local places are brought together through the (perhaps imagined) belief that they are connected by means of a regional or national “place” (Cresswell, 2015, p. 142). Multiple levels of place tend to affect and reinforce each other. Qian et al. (2011, p.182) examined the implications of “sense-of-place” meanings of Chinese urban migrants at community, or “culture center,” and metropolitan, or “city” levels (in this case Guangzhou, China). Their analysis revealed that place-creation at the community level was linked with place-creation at the much larger city level. The migrants developed a sense of attachment to the culture center as a space of relatively higher degree of care, accommodation, and security (2011, p.  182). Through what happened at the local, culture-center, level “the city is re-imagined into a space of security, of comfort, and of integration” (2011, p. 182). While the Qian et al. article focused on a very different setting than the typical social virtual world—that is, Chinese migrants into a major city— it is not a stretch to assert that multi-scalar place-making links can be identified in virtual worlds.

Making Room for “Digital Place?” The last couple of decades have produced an engaging conversation about the role of geography in the digital age, perhaps as part of a “digital turn” (see Ash et al., 2018). This conversation has included digital places in the physical world, but only implicitly—if at all—digital places in virtual worlds. The question that we address here is to what degree can the geographer’s existing understanding of digital place be applied to social virtual worlds? Our discussion of digital place will necessarily build on the ideas developed related to the digital turn introduced in Chap. 2. Zook and Graham were explicit in their discussion of the prominent role of place in the world of the Internet (Zook and Graham 2007a, b).

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They focused on the meaning of a “DigiPlace,” that hybrid space in which information is ranked and mapped in cyberspace to navigate and understand physical places (Zook & Graham, 2007b E&P, p. 466). Cyberspace and place are “intricately connected in a dynamic and mutually constitutive process” (p. 468). Echoing much of the place literature, they argued that “DigiPlace represents the fusion of digital and physical space as networked individuals navigate through increasingly dense (and perhaps inaccessible) clouds of information … about a local environment” (p. 468). Place in the digital world involves material and virtual social processes that in turn constitute those practices. They added that DigiPlace (following Castells, 1996) “encompasses the situatedness of individuals balanced between the visible and the invisible, the fixed and the fluid, the space of places and the space of flows” (2007, p.  468). Moreover, DigiPlace (Zook & Graham, 2007b, p. 468): provides a focus on the ways in which the physical, tangible world combines with virtually accessible information and creates not a fixed setting for interaction, but a lived, fluid, and subjective space, shaped by space, time, and information. In other words, DigiPlace represents the simultaneous interaction with software (information) and ‘hard-where’ (place) by an individual. It is a way to conceptualize the scales of everyday life, and simultaneously to imagine the differences and interdependencies of places … as they interact with a spatialized dimension of information. Thus, DigiPlace is the understanding of a location based on and filtered through information about a place that is available in cyberspace.

In brief, they offered a conceptualization of place in the digital world resulting from the complex interaction between the individual in a location and the technological environment of which the individual is a part, which the individual influences, and through which the individual is influenced. They focused in particular on how GoogleMaps was able to influence users’ perceptions of the places that they called up. While not specifically addressing social virtual worlds in their conceptualization of “DigiPlace,” it is hardly a stretch to imagine virtual worlds in DigiPlace as another form of the “hard-where” enveloping the everyday life of the

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individual, and a new and different interaction with a “spatialized dimension of information.” In a later article, Saunders et al. (2011) clearly engaged the meaning of place in Second Life. While they were writing from the perspective of management information science, they made reference to the work of geographers in the description of “VSP,” or virtual space and place theory. They defined a virtual-world “place” as a receptacle or container “in which people have experiences and express themselves,” and in which “space is the apparent three-dimensional environment within which the container (i.e., place) exists. In the container, objects are manipulated and activities occur. Space bounds and structures the world … and the concept of place [italics in original] is formed by what people do within the boundaries of this container and by how they interact with others in it” (Saunders et al., 2011, p. 1081). They extended the concept of place beyond the container metaphor in four ways: how the boundaries of a place are dynamic, on a focus on the importance of meaning creating place, how the view of a place can be tied to mental representations formed through repeated interactions, and the manner in which place is linked to the concept of presence (2011, p. 1083). While they presented a slightly different take than discussed in preceding sections on concepts such as space, place, presence, and immersion, they stressed the importance of interacting with others, interacting with objects, cognitive adaptation by users (especially if the objects are unfamiliar) to the virtual environment, and directionality (space and the ability to move freely in multiple directions in the virtual place-creating process). Familiarity with the surroundings and building on that familiarity contribute to the process. In essence, the authors stipulated that there is a role for the concept of “place” in virtual worlds. The geographical conceptualization of technology and place may also be viewed in terms similar to the “cyborgian” extension of the person, much like that discussed above regarding avatar identity. That is to say, just as cyborgian capabilities can be added to the individual, so can electronic places be appended to, or layered onto, actual-world places, potentially creating a whole that is greater than the sum of the parts. Early on, Graham (1998, p. 171) made reference to a process of “co-evolution” of

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spaces and places in which he explored “how the social production of electronic networks and ‘spaces’ co-evolves [italics in original] with the production of material spaces and places, within the same broad societal trends and social processes.” He continued the conversation with reference to how human construction of space and place may ground and contextualize technologies, how the emergence of “place virtuality” may provide digital resources to enrich reality in actual places, and how (citing Staple) the Internet may have the effect of “tribalizing” communities into familiar and comfortable material and electronic places that lead to a geographical “explosion of place” (see Graham, 1998, pp.  171–175). Along similar lines, Cresswell (2015, p. 147) referred to the “augmentation” of actual-world place made possible by technology, writing that (Cresswell, 2015, p. 147): Whereas cyberspace has previously been imagined as a separate, non-­ material realm—a kind of alternative reality—virtual worlds are now increasingly layered on to “real” places. Indeed—they are part of real places. Places have become “layered” and “augmented.” … Many of the ways in which we now interact with virtual worlds are totally enmeshed with our use of the familiar landscapes of “brick and mortar.”

Public sites such as Internet cafes, museums, and universities build on local places through Internet connections that extend the capabilities and, perhaps, the meaning of places beyond that which is possible in the actual world. What is relatively undiscussed is whether a deeper immersion is possible so that the avatar’s “phenomenal” presence in a social virtual world, as described above by Veerapen and others, may be found as a similar phenomenal place. Even more interesting, can there be (analogous to identity) gradations of place? Finally, it is worth revisiting Graham’s (2010) “palimpsests” of place as we conclude these remarks about how standard geographical conceptualizations of place may inform our understanding of virtual-world places (see Chap. 2). He described the layering (palimpsests) of place that inevitably occurs over time and has been magnified by the possibilities of a digital age, in which layers of the virtual Earth are superimposed. These layers are not disconnected from other layers of place, even though their

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electronic makeup may suggest otherwise, but share spatialities that flow from people’s understanding of place in general. He concluded by asserting that virtual places are hardly ephemeral occurrences (2010, p. 433): The massive amount of virtual representations of place that have been constructed are not isolated and disconnected depictions and descriptions, but rather come together in the virtual Earth to form an alternate, virtual-­ dimension to place. This dimension exists in a symbiotic, reflexive relationship to the physical world, which by becoming a new layer in the palimpsests of place ultimately can shape our genius loci and change the very nature of place.

Graham did not address social virtual worlds, specifically, but it appears easy to extend his virtual dimension beyond the physical world to include the palimpsests of virtual-world places.

Other Views of Place The place narratives of geographers are numerous and complex, and while the preceding overview provides starting points for reflecting on place in social virtual worlds, we should acknowledge the significance of other ideas. Cresswell (2015) reminded us that place exists in a mobile world in which “place has been conceptualized in relation to mobility, process, and flow.” Seamon (1980) was particularly thought-provoking in his “place-ballet” in which the feeling of belonging that we associate with place comes not so much from a specific location but from the rhythms of life. These rhythms can be associated with Soja’s (1999) “third space” or lived space (Cresswell, 2015, pp. 69–70). Maybe the imperatives of our times—everything from extreme mobility, consumerism, and instant communications—have led to the “placelessness” described by Relph (1976). Lippard (1998), on the other hand, offered the reassurance that people may respond to these imperatives, yet still feel the “pull of place” that satisfies a psychological need to belong (Cresswell, 2015, p. 85). Foucault’s “heterotopia” merits at least passing reference in any conversation about space and place, acknowledging that his views could be seen

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as more avant-garde than other views. His focus was on difference and the “other.” He attempted to explain “principles and features of a range of cultural, institutional and discursive spaces that are somehow ‘different’: disturbing, intense, incompatible, contradictory and transforming” (Johnson, 2013, p.  790). They are often dark places, hardly utopic, although the concept continues to generate “a host of conflicting interpretations and research across a range of disciplines” (Johnson, 2013: 790). All variety of heterotopic settings have been suggested, from cemeteries, asylums, and prisons (Foucault himself ), to women’s studies classrooms, social movement heterotopias, and even cruise ships (Kannen, 2014; Beckett et al., 2017; Rankin & Collins, 2017). A heterotopia may be life-altering. Referring to an actual-world community of 18 Greek and Italian women, Rosetto (2006: 446) argued that a heterotopia is a space for reconstituting the self, rewriting the scripts of identity and placing the self within a new context. How better to describe the effects of social virtual worlds for many users? If avatar places are anything, they are disruptive “other” places offering the potential for reconstituting the self. In conclusion, this brief review of the various strands of geographic thought regarding place provides a foundation for elaboration of the meaning of place in social virtual worlds. As seems appropriate, we give the last word to Cresswell (2015, p.  113). In his concluding remarks about several case studies, he observed that places “have complicated relationships both to the past and to other places near and far. These accounts … show how place is a way of understanding the world.” We want to demonstrate how place helps us to understand the social virtual world.

F ormulating a Definition of Place for Social Virtual Worlds Given the challenging levels of abstraction and jargon, and the frustrating overlaps, associated with place, people may be forgiven for adopting a place-based version of the old nostrum that, even though you cannot define it, you know it when you see it. The complexity is intensified when

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dealing with social virtual worlds. In this section we apply, where possible, geographical thinking about place to social virtual worlds, focusing on assemblage theory and using the experiences of Ana and JT as “real” virtual illustrations. We conclude with an operational definition of place for social virtual worlds.

An “Assemblage” of Similarities and Differences Real Selves in Avatar Form We remind ourselves that when dealing with Ana and her places (also true for JT), we are engaging an avatar “self ” and its embodiment. What can we say about avatar embodiment and place, given the preceding place narratives? Non-representational theorists may wonder where the “precognitive triggers” described by Lorimer (2005, p.  84) or the “pre-individual” influences mentioned by Thrift (2008, p.  16) come from in an avatar, who is, after all, an electronic being with a notoriously short shelf life. We are reminded, once again, that a connection always remains between the avatar and the user, regardless how much of a “phenomenal I” the avatar may represent. We may think of these triggers for the immersed avatar as potentially a piece of the user that is suppressed or hidden, perhaps an expression of what Taylor (2002) articulated regarding how users internally experience their selves. We may reflect on the Jungian understanding of the psyche and its constituent parts, many of which lie fallow or unrecognized. More to the point, Ana may embody a piece of her user that is unknown to, unrecognized by, and/or suppressed by her user; and the places that she shapes and occupies in-world may correspond to such precognitive triggers. In the opposite case, for the un-immersed “avatar-­ as-­object” described by Veerapen, for the avatar whose role is little more than a user’s chattel, the nature of the self and its precognitive triggers may have very different meanings, as does the place that is produced as a result. Regardless the makeup of the avatar “self,” it takes little imagination to view the avatar as a fully dimensional geographical agent (referring

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broadly to Entrikin, 2011) who is a maker of virtual places. The avatar draws together subject and object, culture and nature, in its mashup world to create places, albeit in the manufactured or contrived “natural” environments of the avatar world. We can include Entrikin’s thinking, whether apropos to his actual world or extrapolated to social virtual worlds, in a broader discourse about place formation and becoming as the product of a wide array—perhaps an “assemblage”—of elements.

A Gathering of Heterogeneous Elements It makes sense to view the avatar “self ” and its embodiment, however manifest in social virtual worlds, as one of many elements that comprise the assemblage. These elements create a heterogeneous gathering of human, material, in-world, actual-world, local and non-local entities, and influences that constitute place. They are engaged in complex relations with the virtual environment at multiple scales. Ana’s very existence is a product of such a gathering. Of particular interest in understanding the gathering that defines virtual place, however, is the role of materiality, contingency, and scale. Regardless how Ana’s selfhood is viewed, the environment of which it is a part includes a tangible material setting. Ana lives a “material” existence in a material space—it is just that “materiality” is expressed in a pixel medium instead of a water, rock, and air world. In terms of tangible attributes (and as noted above), her office space has a desk and chairs, along with bookcases filled with books. She does not really need to sit in a chair and work from a desk. Most of the books, in spite of their classic titles and used-looking hard covers, are mainly ornamental. These items, however, provide the familiarity that she finds agreeable and the role definition that she desires. The material trappings of her office convey a message about what kind of place it is: business. Materiality in a virtual world may have more to do with communication and interaction than comfort and relaxation. Berger et  al. (2016) helped us to understand this difference in their exploration of avatar-­ based “interactional architecture.” Simply stated, furniture in a virtual place is present not so much to accommodate the physical comfort of

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people as to send a message about what kind of interaction is expected— that is, room appointments serve as iconic signs that flag the type of conversation that is occurring in the place (2016, p.  88). The authors maintained that (2016, pp. 98–99): Space in virtual life, such as Second Life, imitates many aspects of space in physical life, but some affordances of physical life which enable specific forms of communication turn into flags in virtual contexts. They are— strictly speaking—not needed to enable communication but they serve as indicators or frames of the specific type of communication that is taking place.

In brief, yes it is nice that Ana has office chairs for people to sit in; however, these chairs are not intended to afford avatars the types of courtesy and comfort associated with the actual world, but instead to point to the type of interaction—that is, conversation—that is expected to happen. Sitting on Ana’s sofa at home would point to a different type of interaction. On a more emotional level, however, the question remains whether absent these accoutrements—without her home and office, and their material trappings—Ana could still function in the social virtual world? The answer is probably yes, but how would she feel? How would her user feel? Would she be responding to a twenty-first-century version of Relph’s “placelessness”? (Relph, 1976) Would virtual reality be less real? Materiality in social virtual worlds exists in a different environment of cause and effect, and contingency. Duffy and Stojanovic (2018, p.  4) observed how: Assemblage thinking discards the assumption that a particular cause will always have the same effect, or will always produce the same outcome. Causes are understood as events (that are necessary but not sufficient for change). They are disturbed by other contingent internal and external happenings.

While Duffy and Stojanovic were conceptualizing an approach to relate assemblage thinking to population geography (and social virtual worlds probably could not have been farther from their thoughts), they provided

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an intriguing basis for contemplation about cause and effect, and contingency, in social virtual worlds. Cause and effect, and the role of contingency, can be different in a social virtual world. If a person in the actual world walks into a wall, the wall probably stops the person—cause and effect. If an avatar walks into a wall in Second Life, the avatar may be stopped, or not, contingent on how the wall was scripted. It could be that the wall looks like a wall, but allows people to walk through it. If a person in the actual world walks off a cliff and falls to the bottom, the person is probably hurt, thanks to gravity—cause and effect. If an avatar in Second Life falls off a cliff, a wider array of contingencies sets in. The avatar can fall to the bottom, unhurt. The avatar may simply fly away or cheat the process by logging off. If a person in the actual world spots an empty chair, the person sits in it—cause and effect. If an avatar spots an empty chair in Second Life, the avatar can sit in it, contingent on the chair’s scripting to receive the avatar, and contingent on the avatar clicking the command properly, and contingent on the avatar being close enough to the chair for the command to be executed. In these cases, it is easy to relate to social virtual worlds the comments of Duffy and Stojanovic (2018, p. 4) that the processes involved in an assemblage are “determined by the nature of the practices and parts of the Assemblage.” The issue of scale applies in a haphazard, limited, and contingent manner to virtual-world places. First, there may be nothing that the local place can physically scale up to—that is, no larger physical spaces. It is true that Second Life has a recognizable map and perhaps scalability is possible. Other social virtual worlds, however, are more inclined to focus on places that are not situated in larger mappable spaces. The places are a collection of points within the cybersphere, without geographies that go beyond the places themselves. Second, even if physical scalability were possible, other institutional impediments exist. A world such as Second Life is a business entity with a corporate rather than national culture. While many people feel affection for the Second-Life enterprise, it is difficult to contemplate a corporate-scale embrace of local place feelings. What about something in between—that is, a regional expression of place? It is true that sims are often stitched together to produce a larger region (in some cases tens, even hundreds, of sims), and residents are encouraged to find meaning in, and attachment to, these regions. In

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some cases, as in the examples of the Gorean and Star Wars communities, residents seem to achieve a regional sense of place. Such regional expressions may be the best expression of scalability possible. Third, irrespective of physical and institutional issues, the sheer magnitude of difference that exists in a typical social virtual world may affect scalability. Most virtual worlds constitute a stewpot of languages, nationalities, and ethnicities that, while defining their own local, and maybe regional, places, share more in common with the place-creating energies of the United Nations rather than the United States.

Constantly Becoming or Emerging A key element of assemblage thinking is that place never stays the same. Place in social virtual worlds is constantly “becoming” in many of the ways described by Pred (1984, see especially p.  280). The process of becoming, however, involves two worlds: the social virtual world and the actual world from which the electronic character was spawned. The social virtual world operates in a corporate context that not only establishes rules for users but designs and supports a technological setting that will shape the process of becoming. A builder, for example, erects structures consistent with the possibilities afforded by the virtual world—for example, the concocted “natural” landscape, the use of “prims” as building materials, a casual relationship with the concept of gravity. The avatar occupying the structure is given the opportunity not to look or act like the user. It is in such a setting that Ana “becomes” and may emerge in ways unexpected or impossible in the actual world. The actual world, on the other hand, has its say. It intrudes to the extent that the place is crafted to resemble the “real thing,” that is, has trees and flowers, an architecturally recognizable house covered by a roof and containing familiar furnishings. The people who occupy the place may import not only landscaping and architectural values but, in keeping with Yee’s Proteus Paradox, their cultural mores and prejudices. What results is a mashup of the two worlds. It is unclear the extent to which the various forms of “becoming” described by Pred may ultimately take on dynamics of their own as a

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virtual-world place evolves. This question is especially intriguing in terms of Pred’s concept of “biography” (Pred, 1984, p. 281)—or that “continuous path through time-space, subject to various types of constraint.” He added that biography formation is “where language is acquired, personality is developed, an ideology evolves and consciousness develops” (Pred, 1984, p. 286). The avatar responds to, as well as influences, the virtual place. While the language acquired in the social virtual world may be little more than the jargon and technical vocabulary needed to survive a virtual experience, it can be a significant barrier to the “newbie” (see the discussion in Vignette 1.1). In terms of personality and consciousness, Ana has, by most accounts, developed her own persona, though offering a similar conclusion about consciousness may be more problematic. Pred’s references to personality and consciousness take us back to earlier discussions about the meaning of self in avatar form, perhaps the possibility of a phenomenal other that will play a role in biography formation. Regardless, it is arguable that the avatar’s “becoming” through its various “paths” and “projects” (Pred, 1984, p. 281) may be just as iterative and recursive in the formation of a virtual-world biography as for the person in the actual world. Her “becoming” may be embedded within the “emergence” described by Duffy and Stojanovic (2018, p. 4) or the process that leads to the building of the identity of a given assemblage as a gathering of things. Her “becoming” was part of an assemblage of heterogeneous pieces, everything from humans, to things, to ideas (see Müller 2015, p. 29). Along the same lines, territorialization, deterritorialization, and reterritorialization occurred in Ana’s “becoming,” reflecting the configuration and reconfiguration of the heterogeneous elements that shape assemblages. In many cases, the context of which she became a part led to changes in Ana’s home and office, not to mention adjustments to her outlook, to her ways of interacting, and to the larger set of related entities that were gathered to define her embodied experiences in places. Many of these changes involved the introduction of new technologies, as, for example, the way avatars were made to look. The crude painted look of the early avatars—an almost cartoonish rendition—gave way to “mesh” constructions that produced astonishingly realistic miens. The same mesh

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concepts were applied to furnishings and buildings. Many places now can be made to look like their actual-world cognates—sometimes even better. Real estate in Second Life provides an additional illustration of the dynamics of territorialization. Ana inhabits the plots of land—the places—on which her home and office are located. These plots are part of a larger plat made by the owners of the sim or region. The property lines are clearly defined and usually durable, but things may happen to destabilize the plat. Sim owners may sell out, go broke, or decide to restructure, potentially disrupting the lives and changing the places of the plot holders. Space can also become contested when a noxious or disagreeable plot holder lands in a sim, as, for example, when a strip club locates next to a virtual library, or when somebody builds a high-rise apartment complex that blocks a neighbor’s view of the ocean. Ana’s world is replete with deterritorializing moments, many of which are peculiar to the electronic environments of which she and all avatars are part. A prime example is when the furniture in her house “disappeared”—mistakenly but irretrievably—as she was moving from one residence to another. How often in the actual world does a person “misplace” a full-size grand piano? Ana did—one that played all her favorite classical pieces!—as she was de-rezzing her house.

A Source of Meaning or Affect Included in the assemblages that define places are the less-tangible, yet profoundly important, influences and outcomes associated with the meaning of place. While this component may be subsumed within the constellation of heterogeneous connections and relationships that comprise the assemblage, it merits special consideration in the instance of social virtual worlds. The virtual-world cognates found in Ana’s office— for example, the desk and chairs—and in her home—for example, the sofa and bed—provide a relatable familiarity that contribute to the “center of meaning” described by Tuan and perhaps the “structure of feeling” described by Agnew (1987). In Tuan’s thinking, place is more than an enveloping materiality—that is, a plot of land or structure. Like in the actual world, place in a social

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virtual world is encountered by the senses and through feelings. Can a virtual place be “experienced”? Can the user’s avatar “smell” the virtual roses, “feel” the hot sand of the beach, or “hear” the wind blow through the trees? It goes back, of course, to the user-avatar relationship described in the preceding chapter, but if the answer is some version of “yes,” it is not farfetched to think that an authentic virtual-place experience is at hand. Can a virtual place become a “home,” with which the avatar feels connection and attachment? Once again, the relationship of the user to the social virtual world will guide the answer, but there is little reason to believe that a home is out of the question. What about language and its power in social virtual worlds? One need to go no further than the naming of beaches and other attractions to expose its power—want to rent a virtual home at “Beautiful Beach” anyone? Ana clearly inhabits a world of affect, although we may need to leave it to philosophers and psychologists to determine where the affect resides and whence it comes. Some fully immersed users will want mentally to concede the affective experience to the avatar, giving it dominion over that portion of the user’s psyche that it reflects. Other users who are less immersed may take full ownership of the experience and will attribute nothing to the avatar. Regardless, affect is still in play.

Toward a Definition of Place in Social Virtual Worlds How do we define “place” in social virtual worlds and for purposes of this study? We submit that place in a social virtual world is a location that is: • Real and inhabited by real selves in avatar form. • A source of meaning and affect for place occupants and their users. • Constituted by a gathering of heterogeneous entities and forces (human and material, in-world and actual world, local and non-local) engaged in complex relations with the virtual environment. • Constantly emerging or becoming, leading to territorialization, deterritorialization, and reterritorialization of places.

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In keeping with the discussion above, we may distinguish between “thick” and “thin” virtual places, with the former serving as locations of special attachment to the avatar-selves.

 Classification of Social Virtual-World Places: A Overlapping Circles With this definition in mind, we may turn our attention toward the types of social virtual-world places that give expression and meaning to the virtual-world experience. Embedded in the classification scheme is the acknowledgment that different users and their avatars may define their relationships differently. The focus remains on Second Life, but we may assume that other social worlds will have similar places. This classification contains five broad categories that are not mutually exclusive; they are overlapping circles. There are some role-play locations, for instance, that would be classified as “embodiment re-creation,” but rent residences to players. We may find, in addition, primarily residential areas in which some residents are searching for improvement and respite or perhaps immersing themselves in what amounts to role play. One residential area surveyed in this study, for example, is nude only, suggesting that people become residents for purposes that go beyond wanting a virtual home, hanging their hats, or tending a virtual garden.

Commercial/Government/Public Places2 It is difficult to believe that at one time it was possible virtually to “kick the tires” of a possible car purchase. At the same time, a woman could try on an outfit in-world before making an actual-world purchase. An avatar could take advantage of an in-world banking system, based on the “Linden,” or the Second-Life currency. Government offices had presences in Second Life. The Swedish government constructed an “embassy” some 2  For purposes of data collection, this category was also used to assign places and survey respondents that did not easily match the other categories. Consequently, the commercial/government/public places category was the least homogenous and the most difficult to interpret of the five categories.

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years ago for clerical purposes (though who was accrediting that embassy remained unclear). News organizations such as CNN and Reuters had offices. Political campaigns did not miss a beat with in-world campaign offices and even campaign events. In other words, there was a concerted attempt to create places that constituted extensions of actual-world places. The social virtual world was a destination for many of the activities commonly performed in the actual world (Fig. 4.1). Things changed, of course. For many businesses, making profits in-­ world became more aspirational than realistic due to insufficient market sizes and/or changing regulatory environments, and companies left as quickly as they came. Indeed, the banking industry was banned due to concerns about potential irregularities and illegalities in an unregulated environment. Likewise, the gaming industry lost its in-world home. Current business places are more likely to attend to the needs of the in-­ world economy rather than to serve in some sort of “branch” capacity for actual-world enterprises. Examples of such places include vendors of

Fig. 4.1  A figurative business landscape in Second Life as of 2009. (Source: With permission, Motrix Bulloch)

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avatar “skins,” “bodies,” “hair,” apparel, and beauty products for women. In addition, real estate is a major economic activity, to the point that some of the first true virtual-world millionaires (in U.S. dollars) were able to create fortunes from building and managing real-estate empires. Building consultants and similar types of activities support the in-world economy. Finally, the in-world entertainment industry in its various manifestations is big, from dance venues, to “beaches,” to stage shows. Notwithstanding all the changes, the business possibilities of social worlds remain of interest to writers in the business literature (see, e.g., Kieger, 2010; Hassouneh & Brengman, 2015; Nazir & Lui, 2016; Srivastava & Shalini, 2018; and Bleize & Antheunis, 2019). It can be surmised that, at least initially, avatars tend to present themselves in more of Veerapen’s “avatar-as-object” or “avatar-extends-me” modes, or Schultze and Leahy’s “fully integrated” (with the user) avatar. They are representing actual-world businesses, and experiments with the meaning of self hardly fit into most business plans. Later, as businesses increasingly cater to in-world markets, perhaps greater avatar immersion becomes desirable.

Places for Embodiment Re-Creation Evans (see Chap. 3) described three themes related to how social virtual worlds can be used to address the self: self-exploration, embodied experience of self, and the transfer of benefits to the actual-world self. Virtual-­ world places offer locations where the self may be examined and expressed in different ways, with the assurance that these expressions can be anonymous and realized only in the presence of other anonymized beings. Some of the places that promote embodiment re-creation cater to those users who have an undisclosed actual-world status that the user wants expressed but not revealed. This status may be sexual in nature. In other cases, experimentation may take the form of changing race, ethnicity, or gender. Potentially, “re-creation” may take the form simply wanting to look younger and more “ideal.” Many of the places in Second Life promote themed role-play experiences, such as in Old West, futuristic “space-play,” “urban-grunge,” or

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Fig. 4.2  Streetscapes of 1920s Berlin. (This region is an example of the role-play sim, many of which have a fantasy or historical focus. Source: Pictures by author)

perhaps story-book-type fantasy places (Figs.  4.2 and 4.3). Some role-­ play settings focus on faithful restorations of the past, possibly with an educational goal in mind or a desire to relate the past to the present (see, for example, Cloutier, 2018; Carden, 2019). Other role-play places

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Fig. 4.3  The Star Wars Library. (The person in the picture is a librarian and archivist. Multiple futuristic role-play sims exist in Second Life)

openly appeal to a user’s “shadow” side (channeling Jung) reflecting the user’s rawest instincts and/or social pathologies (perhaps with the understanding that it is all right—“it’s only role play,” after all).3 Whether such behaviors are cathartic and therapeutic is clearly open to debate. Regardless the role-play theme, most locations enforce strict protocols about how avatars interact with each other, to the point of requiring a rules test before being allowed to play. Players are asked to write elaborate character profiles. They may not second-guess what a fellow player knows or is about to say (for fear of ejection for “god-modding” or committing a similar breach). Rules exist for what can be said in “IC” (in character) or “OOC” (out of character). We expect, consequently, that users will be more disposed to see themselves as immersed, perhaps in the “avatar as equal” sense described by Veerapen (2011), or Wardle’s (2016) “real” avatar, or something approaching Schultze and Leahy’s (2009) “autonomous agent.” It is likely that these users regard their places as locations for play more than work,  The author resisted the temptation to highlight examples of this type of role-play location.

3

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although that does not mean that they are lacking as centers of meaning. Indeed, these locations may even provide residences that constitute homes.

Places for Improvement and Respite Some places assist with actual-world improvement. Reference was made in an earlier chapter about the therapeutic benefits that may flow from the avatar to the actual-world user, whether as a virtual exercise buddy or perhaps in the form of personal growth. It may be that life as an avatar addresses the user’s actual-world shyness. Some places—a beach or mountain-scape, for example—may be designed to promote solace in the actual world (Fig. 4.4). There is overlap between the places for improvement and respite and the places for embodiment re-creation, in that the latter may produce responses in the user similar to those of the former. The sims of one of the most prominent organizations in Second Life, Virtual Abilities, provide an example. The sims of Virtual Abilities are popular destinations for

Fig. 4.4  Source of contentment: mountain-scape in Second Life There are many places simply to relax and enjoy scenery in Second Life.

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people with real-world physical challenges—for example, not being able to walk or suffering from an incapacitating disease. Users often create embodiments that do not include actual-world impairments, virtually extending their bodies’ capabilities. At the same time, these users acquire actual-world benefits from having a place where their impairments are mooted and where they can perform identities that go beyond that which is possible in the actual world (see also the comments in Kleban & Kaye, 2015). It is easy to imagine a variety of avatar embodiments appearing in places for improvement and respite, with emphasis on Veerapen’s (2011) “avatar as prosthesis” or “phantom limb,” perhaps Wardle’s (2016) “imaginary” avatar, or maybe the type of cyborg or cyborgian entanglements described by Evans (2016) and Schultze (2014). Regardless the pixel incarnation, there will be instances in which users simply want to escape to a parallel existence. Finding meaning is possible in each instance.

Places for Intellectual and Artistic Engagement Some places provide opportunities for novel artistic and educational expression. As noted in Chap. 1, schools and colleges literally tripped over each other to establish branch campuses in social virtual worlds. This exuberance waned after only a few years, but an educational footprint remains. Universities still have campuses, though probably downsized (see Vignette 4.2). Perhaps of greater significance, educational groups dedicated to exploring the potential of virtual worlds still find homes, have meetings, and hold conferences in Second Life, Open Sims, and elsewhere. Researchers are still writing about education in social virtual worlds (see, for example, Childs et  al., 2012; Haythornthwaite, 2016; Ghanbarzadeh & Ghapanchi, 2016; Jacka, 2018; Gong, 2018; Knutzen, 2019; Rudolphi-Solero et al., 2020; Anyetei & Ajayi, 2021). In addition, a variety of book clubs and related activities remain in-world. Whereas the educational use of Second-Life sims may be down, artistic expression appears to be undiminished if not actually flourishing. Social virtual worlds offer an opportunity to blend traditional approaches to the arts with the technical possibilities of a virtual world to produce different

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and innovative ways of exploring the arts. It is amazing, for example, how “programmed” gravity can be used to make dancers airborne without cables and how three-dimensional modeling can make exquisitely beautiful stage sets that can be erected and dismantled in seconds (see Vignette 4.3). Likewise, intellectual engagement continues. An interesting and important example was provided by the Science Circle, which is one of Second Life’s most prominent science organizations and is dedicated to science education. Science Circle committed a platform (a piece of a region floating in the air) to an immersive re-creation of a landscape from 61 million years ago in South America. A team of three scientists4 set out to model in Second Life an inland riverine setting from the paleocene using fossil evidence from an open-pit coal mine, Cerrejón, in northern Colombia. They inferred from their research a lush swampy rainforest landscape with limited species diversity, an outcome of the recent meteor strike and dinosaur kill-off . There was secondary evidence of limited insect life; other animal life was present but, once again, not diverse in species. Their focus, however, was on a specific type of gigantic snake called the Titanoboa. If the size of the modern anaconda is fear-inspiring, their snake was larger by several multiples with a mouth that would make short work of the largest prey, including the crocodiles of the time (see Fig. 4.5). The snake could hardly squeeze through the average modern door frame. It was more than 40 feet in length and weighed over a ton. It took six months for the Second-Life team to model such a snake, even though only 60 of its original 300 vertebrae were included because of the complexity of the three-dimensional modeling process. The resulting replica could slither and curl in an amazingly realistic way. Even though the immersed avatar knows that it is not a “real” snake, the user senses a “real” experience as he or she walks through the muck of the snake’s habitat.

4  Alex Hastings (actual-world names) provided the paleontological understanding, Greg Bollella designed the snake, and Linda Kelley created the period-appropriate ecological setting. This project would not have been successful without the teamwork involved. The results of this project were presented to a meeting of the Science Circle, one of the premier science organizations in Second Life. Science Circle makes use of the virtual world to visualize science (https://www.sciencecircle. org/global-digital/)

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Fig. 4.5  The ancient Titanoboa This “snake” from 61 million years ago is giving a period crocodile a very bad day as the Titanoboa coils itself around its prey. Shown in the picture are Linda Kelley and Greg Bollella in the Science Circle’s immersive exhibit, a diorama that a person can walk through. Picture by author.

The scientific team demonstrated how an immersive virtual place can be transformed into an immersive learning space. We may speculate that these types of places value both work and play, as well as a sense of personal accomplishment. We would expect to find that avatars in these places, like with their business/government counterparts, are relatively unconcerned about immersion.

Primarily Residential Places Many of the sims present in Second Life are dedicated to “housing,” to the extent that such is really needed in an electronic world (when the user logs off the avatar no longer remains in-world, or in its home). Many people devote the same time and attention designing their virtual homes that they spend on their actual homes. In some cases, the virtual home receives this type of attention because it is too difficult or too expensive

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to do in the actual world. Real estate has been, and remains, a big business in Second Life and many of the residential developments have tens, if not hundreds, of themed residential sims (e.g., Mexican- or European-­ themed in which the resident must build in accordance with a particular type of architecture). Most residential organizations offer entertainment and other group activities for the people who live on the sims.

What the Surveys Say The questionnaire involved two sets of place statements: statements related to the “current” place, which was the place directly associated with the group of the “current” avatar; and statements related to the “main” or “primary” location of the avatar (whichever the respondent selected if there were more than one such place). The intent was to compare the two types of locations which, ideally, would reveal information about activity-based sims relative to places that users called home. Of the 73 respondents, four skipped the place sections altogether. Of the remaining 69 users, 53 indicated that they had another “main” or “primary” location and 17 replied that they did not. (One respondent is unaccounted for.) The 17 respondents who indicated that the current sim was the same as the main or primary location were asked to omit the last section of the questionnaire. Apparently, only 11 of 17 respondents omitted the final section, leaving six people who answered both parts when they did not need to. While unhelpful, this overlap did not materially appear to distort the larger trends. The findings are presented in Table 4.1. We reviewed the questionnaire and interview data from three perspectives: First, we identified trends between the two columns of data, or between the current sim or place, and the main or primary location. Second, we investigated the extent to which these data can be related to the definition of place in social worlds that is presented in this study. Third, we drew comparisons between respondent perceptions and the types of places introduced by the place classifications. We related, as helpful, this discussion of virtual places to the identity narrative contained in Chap. 3.

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Table 4.1  Relationship between the avatar and its places Percentage (n=58 or 69, depending on the place) Relationship between Avatar and Places

SDisagree

Curr Curr Curr Curr Curr Sim Main Sim Main Sim Main Sim Main Sim

Main

This sim or place feels like a “home” to me This sim or place has emerged as a “center of meaning” for me This place is a location to do work (business, education, etc.) for me This place is a location to “play” I feel emotionally attached to the people in the community that occupy this place I regard this sim or place as an emotional and/ or physical refuge for me I regard this sim or place as a location for artistic and/or intellectual engagement

0.0

0.0

11.6 6.9

17.4 5.2

40.6 46.6

30.4

41.4

0.0

1.7

11.6 6.9

33.3 24.1

44.9 34.5

10.1

32.3

10.1 10.5

20.3 22.8

17.4 12.3

34.8 29.8

17.4

24.6

2.9

4.4

8.6

15.9 12.1

52.2 34.5

24.6

44.8

1.45 1.7

1.45 5.2

24.6 13.8

47.8 43.1

24.6

36.2

2.9

1.7

20.1 6.9

27.5 24.1

33.3 34.5

15.9

32.8

0.0

1.7

5.8

11.6 12.1

46.4 37.9

36.23 44.8

0.0

Disagree

3.5

Neutral

Agree

SAgree

(continued)

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4  Is Place Still a Place in Social Virtual Worlds?  Table 4.1 (continued) Percentage (n=58 or 69, depending on the place) Relationship between Avatar and Places

SDisagree

I regard this sim or place as a location that helps me with personal improvement This place helps me to learn about my RL self It is important that this sim (or any sim) has the furnishings, physical structure, and/ or other trappings that I would expect to find in RL—i.e., floors, roof, chairs, etc. I have witnessed changes over time to this place I view this place as mainly the product of imagination I view this place to be as “real” as my actual-­ world places

2.9

Disagree

Neutral

Agree

SAgree

Curr Curr Curr Curr Curr Sim Main Sim Main Sim Main Sim Main Sim

Main

1.7

17.4 19.0

33.3 25.9

33.3 31.0

13.04 22.4

4.35 1.7

14.5 13.8

39.1 29.3

27.5 31.0

14.5

24.1

11.6 5.2

14.5 13.8

20.3 12.1

37.7 39.7

15.9

29.3

1.5

5.9

17.7 10.3

45.6 44.8

29.4

41.4

0.0

3.5

1.45 1.7

18.8 13.8

29.0 19.0

30.4 44.8

20.3

20.7

1.5

17.4 10.3

26.1 15.5

39.1 48.3

15.9

24.1

1.7

(continued)

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Table 4.1 (continued) Source: Self-generated data. Note abbreviations: SDisagree strongly disagree; Disagree disagree; Neutral Neither agree nor disagree; Agree agree; SAgree strongly agree. Each agreement level shows two columns: Curr Sim current sim or place; Main main or primary location

Comparing Current Sims with Main/Primary Sims The data showed general agreement with the questionnaire statements, regardless whether respondents were referring to primary locations or current sims. In 23 of 26 cases, a majority of respondents either agreed or strongly agreed with the statements. Occupants of the current sims were less inclined to agree that these sims were refuges, contributed to personal development, or helped the users to learn about themselves. Levels of agreement were highest for the statement that the main or primary location feels like a home. For the three cases in which respondents did not show a majority agreeing with the statements, neither were there large percentages indicating strong disagreement or disagreement. Such widespread agreement with the statements was surprising. It would not have been unexpected, for example, to find a higher level of disagreement beyond the 2.9 percent generated for the place-is-a-­ location-for-play statement, given that many respondents were engaged in some form of work in the virtual world. Such levels of agreement across the board suggest that there may be a larger social virtual-world persona that perceives virtual places in fundamentally undifferentiated ways. It cannot be ruled out, however, that the survey designs fostered recruiting such a homogeneous group of participants.

 urvey Findings and the Definition of Place in Social S Virtual Worlds The survey findings provided a basis for partial analysis of the definition of place in social virtual worlds presented in this study. The perception-­ based focus of the surveys did not produce the type of data that would yield insights into all the heterogeneous entities and forces contained in the definition. The more “affective” components, on the other hand, could be addressed by the findings.

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Respondents generally responded favorably to the notion that social virtual-world places are real locations inhabited by real selves in avatar form, regardless of whether the subject was the current sim or main location. The questionnaire asked respondents to rate their agreement with the statement that their virtual places were as real as their actual-world places. An overwhelming 72.4 percent of respondents agreed that their main locations were just as real as their actual-world places, and 55.0 percent agreed that such was the case for the current sim (an inclination supported by a correlation coefficient of 0.56 between those who perceived their main and current locations as real). The related, opposing, statement that respondents viewed their places as mainly the product of the imagination (main = 65.5 percent, current = 50.7 percent)5 was not associated in a meaningful way with the place-is-real statement, suggesting that the perception of “real” did not lie in opposition to the perception of “imagined.” The imagination statement was negatively associated with a willingness to share actual-world information with people other than friends (−0.36), which indicated a desire for privacy that would not be unexpected, but there were no other meaningful associations, especially with perceptions related to real places. Interview findings added substance to how users perceived their locations as real, in some cases conflating place with avatar presence. Key-­ informant Cat was adamant that: Yes, I find every virtual space to be very real. The fact that a space has been created by someone makes it real to me. If someone puts on [a] theater performance inworld, it is a real theater performance to me. If sailors are sailing through the seas of Naked, I see them as actually living out the activity of sailing; they are adjusting the sails, steering, moving through space, adapting to the changing landscape as it unfolds in their view.

Dance-company-owner Caryl Meredith remarked that “Regardless the location, the theater as place remains the same. Just because it is virtual does not make it unreal.” Several of her focus-group members 5  A shorthand method used throughout this section is that “main” refers to the main or primary location and “current” refers to the current sim or place that is associated with the group surveyed and, additionally, with the places described in the classification.

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commented that “I consider this place to be real … To me this place (SLDC) is real. Real people, working on real things. … It is real. … Real interactions, real time involved.” One focus-group member argued that “Places operate by different rules than in RL, but they are not less real.” Another member remarked that “for some odd reason the landscape and buildings in SL are as real for me as my RL town.” Key-informant Sudane Erato compared the meaning of real in virtual worlds to social media as a whole: Space in SL is real… yes … It is the space in which human beings interact. It has so much more depth than the channels we normally think of as social media in that it is 3D and we are 3D … so the effectiveness of the interaction is a thousand times more than social media … these spaces are real because our interaction as humans is real.

There were contrary perceptions. Key-informant Rosie Gray remarked that she didn’t think of virtual places as real—“I think of them as a kind of fantasy.” This position was partially echoed by a focus-group participant who asserted that a virtual place is “as real as anything in SL can be.” She added that the places are like doll houses and that being in the virtual world is “like playing Barbies.” A third focus-group member wrote that “it’s not ‘real,’ only realistic” in describing her role-play sim. For many respondents, it was place as a center of meaning that made it real. It was the meaning that was derived from affective engagement with friends, the community, the home place, and other sources of attachment. The questionnaire asked participants to respond to a statement about whether their sims have emerged as centers of meaning (as described by Tuan and others). Two-thirds of respondents (66.8 percent) agreed that their primary locations were centers of meaning, and slightly over half (55.0 percent) concluded the same for their current places. These places definitely constituted “homes” for most users—88.0 percent agreement for the primary locations and 71.0 percent for the current sims. The center-of-meaning statement produced noteworthy associations with several identity- and place-related statements, particularly those speaking to intimacy with the avatar and connections to place-based communities. Respondents agreed that the center-of-meaning statement was associated

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with: growing attachment to the avatar (main = 0.40); my avatar as my true self (current = 0.40); this place feels like home (main = 0.63, current = 0.54); SL friends have become RL friends (main = 0.46, current = 0.31); SL friends are just as close as RL friends (main = 0.44, current = 0.33); I feel emotionally attached to the people in the community (main = 0.53, current = 0.46); and the feeling of it is me over there (main = 0.38). It is noteworthy that such tangible items and actual-world cognates as floors, roofs, and chairs were important to respondents with agreement levels at 69.0 and 53.6 percent for main or primary locations and current sims, respectively; but this statement did not correlate strongly with perceptions of center of meaning and home. This finding may lend authority to Berger’s et al. (2016) assertion that such items send a message more about what kind of interaction is expected rather than how place is perceived. Respondent observations about center of meaning and home emphasized the importance of feeling, friendship, and community. The Goreans have “home stones” or places around which activities are organized that serve as centers of meaning. A person could almost sense the emotion of a focus-group member who wrote “My home parcel is the one I’ve had since my avatar was 2-weeks old. It is always the place I go back to.” Another member always returned to home because it is “our safe place, from which we explore.” Key-informant Cat wrote about cultivation of a sense of place among members of her community was “hugely important” to her. An anonymous key informant mused that while she was attached to her virtual places, her attachments were greater to the people that occupied the places than to the places themselves (just as in the actual world). Key-informant Corcosman reflected on how “I do have the feeling of ‘home’ on the sim and I would be quite sad if for any reason I had to move on.” Key-informant Sudane maintained that “Place is a very huge thing for me” in a particularly visceral way: “I think that … like spiritual places on RL … there are digital places in SL that connect to a person’s psyche … it’s really that kind of spiritual … ‘subconscious’ thing.” Key-informant Jo was asked whether cultivation of a sense of place was important to the Berlin sims, which she attached to community spirit and the habits of daily life: “Yes absolutely, the community spirit of Berlin is one of the reasons the place has been very successful, it’s

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a neighbourhood, people get married, care about their neighbours, go to the local pub daily, people have lived here for years.” Building on the community theme, a focus-group member wrote, “I have lived in many places in SL … but they were just parcels where I set my ‘home’ and placed my stuff … what makes CDS very different is the sense of community.” Key-informant Gentle expressed a somewhat contrarian view of place: “I am VERY literal. I define place structurally, without reference to emotion, etc. So I have trouble understanding thick/thin and other categorizations. Place is the position in space where I am at that point in time.” On the other hand, she acknowledged “feelings that differ from place to place.” The role of familiar trappings such as furnishings in creating meaning received mixed reviews by users, as indicated by the questionnaire data. For some respondents, familiar trappings were important. Key-informant Sudane stressed how “Familiar surroundings are … of huge impact … the surroundings are the same as RL physical surroundings that are familiar … your psyche locates itself in them.” Key-informant Jo Yardley allowed that: cars make you want to drive, chairs sit, beds sleep, food eat, so all those things make it easier for us to give our avatars a realistic experience and thus perhaps strengthen the connection between them and us. If you put avatars or humans in totally alien surroundings they often don’t know what to do.

Key-informant Cat effused that “Yes, I find that known, familiar surroundings are important to me and have great meaning.” Key-informant Rosie asserted that “Just as I like my avatar to be as realistic as possible, I like the graphic environment. … the regions, to be as realistic as possible”—in other words, maybe it is not so much about furnishings as the larger context. For other respondents’ familiar trappings, while nice, were not necessarily the source of real meaning. Key-informant Kaiila, writing about the role-play sims of Gor, admitted that she loved her home and all the “stuff” in it. Conversations with respondents led to an appreciation for other ways in which virtual places created meaning. Some respondents commented

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about how the virtual home was meaningful because they could afford to create what they wanted, unlike in the actual world. An anonymous key informant observed that “I have much more freedom in SL to make things look the way I want them to—not so much limited by physical world and finances.” Focus-group members echoed this sentiment in various ways: My Linden Lab home “is what my [RL] home would be if I could afford such luxury.” “Familiar surroundings are important for me and I like to live in houses I would like to live in RL … I also like to decorate with furniture I would like to own in RL but can’t afford.” “I’m thinking, why create RL???? … the creative part of me wants to see wonderous things not possible in RL.” Speaking of that which is not possible, an older member reflected on how she liked “having this place here look very realistic. It makes me feel like I am in a college meeting room.” Other respondents noted a close attachment to place, but this attachment was portable. Key-informant Cat remarked that “I absolutely have strong feelings for spaces in Second Life. I actually tend to change my Home place frequently in order to keep things fresh and interesting. … I love exploring and I feel that changing my home place affords a type of nomadic living that I don’t get to experience in my Real life.” Key-­ informant Caryl wrote about the theater as her primary place, “even though the theater has been situated at many different locations.” The theater is almost a home in itself where she feels good, regardless of location. There was a sense by respondents that their places were emerging or “becoming” in some fashion. Most respondents had plenty of time to think about it, given their long histories in SL. Over 86 percent of respondents had been in the virtual world for more than six years. They acknowledged that things had not remained the same during their Second-Life stints, with 86.2 percent of respondents indicating that they had witnessed changes in their main or primary locations and 75.0 percent agreeing that changes had occurred in their current sims or locations. The perception of change existed for all types of sims, regardless which columns they were in. Users did not reveal whether they perceived these changes to be positive or negative—just changes. In brief, the surveys supported the proposition that virtual-world places were real in their own ways and that they offered meaning to users

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and felt like homes. The presence of familiar surroundings was important to many users but hardly important universally. Places became centers of meaning for some users because they offered opportunities to build dwellings not possible in the actual world because of cost—in other words, meaning from dream fulfillment. Other users remarked how place was a center of meaning that was portable. The affective components of the definition of place introduced in this study were largely supported.

 espondent Perceptions and Place Classification: R Overlapping Circles? Analysis of the data offered moderate support for the place categories proposed in this study, but the most important message may be that the earlier depiction of the place categories as overlapping circles was corroborated. What follows is an attempt to suss out trends—or perhaps more accurately, “hints”—related to the relationship of users to specific place categories and to comprehend how overlapping the circles may be. We look initially at aggregate trends followed by trends specific to place categories. First, locations were used for work, but not always in the expected places based on the classification. Respondents were asked about the extent to which their places were locations to do work. Slightly more than half of users (main = 54.4 percent, current = 52.2 percent) agreed that their locations were places to do work. The most noteworthy associations with the work statement were: your avatar is who you are in RL (current = 0.39); your avatar is an idealized version of your actual self (current = 0.48); you present as your true self (current = 0.32); places for artistic and/or intellectual engagement (main = 0.44, current = 0.48); help with personal improvement (main = 0.39); and a place to learn about myself (main = 0.36). A review of agreement levels for individual place categories showed that it was the arts/education places that were most likely to be viewed as work places (in excess of 80 percent agreement). The business/government category, where we would expect work to be particularly important, did not score above average for all respondents, probably reflecting the relatively heterogeneous makeup of the

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category. Work was also important for residential respondents, but below average for the remaining places. The key-informant and focus-group interview data added little information to the questionnaire about place as a location for work. In brief, the data suggested a work profile defined by it is “just me” types who did the odd snip-and-tuck to enhance their avatars, who were interested in improving themselves personally, and who were associated with arts and education places. Second, everybody came to play, regardless of place category. Over three-fourths of respondents expressed agreement (main = 79.3 and current = 76.8 percent) that their locations were for play. Disagreement levels were in the single digits, which led to the question of what this small percentage used the virtual world for. Respondents from the places for embodiment re-creation, often role-play settings, agreed at a level of 100 percent that their sims were locations for play. People who used their current sims for play tended to produce moderate positive associations with locations that helped them with personal improvement (0.32) and sims that help users learn about themselves in the actual world (0.31). In other words, it was a type of play that produced meaning. As noted in Chap. 3 many avatars, particularly in the role-play locations, were quick to note how their role-play activities were more than fun and games, and had impacts on their actual lives, as in key-informant ZenMondo’s disclosure about how many Star Wars members had taken their virtual-world Jedi paths into the actual world. Having said that, role play was still mostly fun. Third, meaningful percentages of respondents agreed that their locations were emotional and/or physical refuges (main = 67.3 percent, current = 49.2 percent), particularly for those places closest to being called home. Moderate to strong associations were found in relation to emotional attachment (main = 0.36, current = 0.34), presence (current = 0.36), that is me over there (main = 0.34), increasingly come to care about my current avatar (main = 0.34, current = 0.34), changed me about how I feel about myself (main = 0.53, current = 0.41), feels like home (main = 0.45, current = 0.62), location helps me with personal improvement (main = 0.45, current = 0.43), and helps me learn about my actual-­ world self (main = 0.48, current = 0.46). Striking differences existed among place categories. An overwhelming majority (90.0 percent) of respondents in places for improvement and respite agreed that their

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places provided a refuge. They were followed by primarily residential places with 52.0 percent. Respondents in the commercial/government/ public places had little interest in using their places as refuges. In every instance, the percentages were higher for the main or primary locations than for the current sims. Focus-group participants made several references to their locations as safe places. A member of the dance community referred to his virtual home as a “safe space,” while another member of the same group wrote about his virtual home as “a ‘sanctuary’ for winding down at days end as well as a work place for SLDC things.” A participant from one of the residential communities saw refuge as a source of stress relief, writing that “my time in here was a stress control valve—when nothing might be going right out ‘there’, in here I had things that never, by the nature of virtual connection, added stress or problems.” Fourth, personal improvement was a theme that ran throughout the avatar experience and the avatar/place relationship, but not as strongly as anticipated and once again not always in the expected place categories. Two statements in the questionnaire addressed some form of personal improvement: I regard this sim or place as a location that helps me with personal improvement (main = 53.4 percent, current = 46.3 percent), and this place helps me to learn about my RL self (main = 55.1 percent, current = 42.0 percent). The findings revealed a wide range of moderate associations that included: avatar as true self (main = 0.39, current = 0.31), that is me over there (main = 0.47), avatar friends have become actual-world friends (main = 0.45), avatars are as close as actual-world friends (main = 0.47, current = 0.42), increasingly care about my avatar (main = 0.33, current = 0.30), my current avatar has changed me (main = 0.45, current = 0.44), community attachment (current = 0.45), place feels like home (main = 0.42), place as a refuge (main = 0.45, current = 0.43), place of play (main = 0.34, current = 0.32), place of work (main = 0.39), and center of meaning (main = 0.56, current = 0.31). The correlation profile for the statement about how place helps me to learn about my actual-world self was generally similar. Personal improvement was not necessarily strongest in the expected place categories. Review of the agreement percentages for the five types of places revealed that the residential sims were the places most likely to be associated with personal-­ improvement activities. The expected places for improvement and respite did not show as well.

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The strongest and most interesting association was between the two most relevant questionnaire statements themselves—that is, the “personal-­ improvement” variable and the “my place has helped me to learn about my actual-world self ” variable (main = 0.83, current = 0.88). This association suggests that users for whom personal improvement was an important feature of their virtual lives also saw their places as vehicles for achieving improvement, and it did not have to be the “home” place. There is room to argue that for half of the respondents to the questionnaire, there is some sort of therapeutic benefit to a virtual existence that flows, at least partly, from their places. This benefit appears to derive from the power of friendship and community; and places as homes, refuges and centers of meaning. In addition, those respondents who sensed improvement tended to see their avatars as “me over there” who is an object of increasing care. On a more granular level, we can evaluate the extent to which there was agreement between user responses in the five specific place categories and the five statements that were most directly tied to the factors presented above (see Table  4.2). The data were inconsistent in providing clear direction about specific user perceptions for specific place categories, but neither did they invalidate the structure of the classification.6 The commercial/government/public place did not achieve expectations regarding the importance of work (50.0 percent); indeed, the commercial/government/public category took second place to the intellectual and artistic engagement category (81.3 percent). On the other hand, the work category had a perfect score for intellectual and artistic engagement (100 percent). These findings may reflect the relatively heterogeneous makeup of the commercial category (as mentioned above). The embodiment re-creation category, which includes role-play locations, should have received a high score for play, and it did at 100 percent. Other categories, however, produced high agreement levels, which confirms that 6  Exacerbating the problem was the relatively small number of respondents for several place categories. An attempt was made to balance the categories during data collection, but success at this task was clearly a function of user willingness to participate in the surveys. This willingness varied and could not always be compensated for by expanding the subject field. The number of respondents for each place category was: business/government/public places = 9; places for embodiment re-­ creation = 12; places for improvement and respite = 11; places for artistic and intellectual engagement = 16; residential places = 25.

Place categories 52.2 50.0

27.3

45.5

81.3

48.0

76.8 50.0

100.0

72.5

62.5

84.0

48.0

37.5

90.0

45.5

49.2 16.7

Location as Location to emotional or physical refuge do work

76.0

93.8

63.6

90.9

82.6 100.0

Location for artistic and/or intellectual engagement

52.0

31.3

54.6

45.5

46.3 50.0

Location that helps me with personal improvement

Source: Self-generated data a The selected statements most directly relate to the place categories used in this study. Only responses to the “current place” (as opposed to the main or primary location) column were included. The current place was, by definition, closest to the place classifications

All categories Commercial/government/ public places (responses = 6–8) Places for embodiment re-creation (responses = 8–11) Places for improvement and respite (responses = 7–11) Places for intellectual and artistic engagement (responses = 11–16) Primarily residential places (responses = 24–25)

Location to play

Percentage that agreed and strongly agreed for current sim or placea

Table 4.2  Levels of agreement by place category for selected questionnaire statements

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most sims were sources of play. Respondents in the improvement and respite category produced by far the highest level of agreement (90 percent) for emotional and physical refuge, which was expected. Respondents in the intellectual and artistic engagement category strongly agreed (93.8 percent) that the arts and education were what their sims were all about, although there was a lot of work involved (81.3 percent). The final category, primarily residential places, was mainly a location to play (84.0 percent). In summary, the survey data provided a basis for understanding the relationship between users and their avatar places in the following ways: • Respondents generally agreed or strongly agreed with the questionnaire statements related to place contained in the surveys, to the point that it would not be unreasonable to inquire if there were a transcendent social virtual-world persona that perceived different virtual places in fundamentally undifferentiated ways. • The data provided moderate support for the affective components of the definition of social virtual worlds. Users tended to view places as real, centers of meaning, and similar to homes, but there was a mixed response about the importance of familiar trappings. • Users perceived their places as centers of work and play, sources of personal improvement, and as emotional and/or physical refuges. • Correlation data showed a high degree of association between the personal-­improvement statement and the extent to which place was involved in the respondent’s effort to learn about his/her actual-­ world self. • Review of the data for the five place categories failed to provide consistently clear direction about particular user perceptions for specific place categories. A surprising number of features that were initially expected to dominate one place category were reported across all categories. In other words, the data supported the overlapping circle premise, but not to the point of invalidating the classification system as presented.

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Summary and Conclusion The purpose of this chapter was to examine the meaning of “place” in social virtual worlds, focusing on Second Life. We addressed questions that included: How do geographers view place? How can geographical points of view be used to inform how place is defined in a social virtual world? Can we identify a classification of place in a social virtual world like Second Life? Geographers have a long and distinguished history of engaging place in a variety of ways. In this chapter we explored Agnew’s locale, location, and sense of place; Tuan’s place as a center of meaning—of experience, home, and language; Pred’s contest between structure and agency; non-­ representational theory and Thrift’s geography of what happens; Entrikin’s fully dimensional geographical agent as a place maker engaged in complex relations with the environment; the gathering of things, material and not material, that constitute assemblages; and other place conceptualizations. We built on these conceptualizations to propose a definition of place in social virtual worlds to include locations that are: viewed as real and inhabited by real selves in avatar form; a source of meaning and affect for place occupants and their users; constituted by a gathering of heterogeneous entities and forces in relation with the virtual environment at multiple scales; and constantly emerging or becoming. We proposed and examined a classification of social virtual worlds that included commercial/government/public places, places for embodiment re-creation, places for improvement and respite, places for intellectual and artistic engagement, and primarily residential places. Review of the data generated for this study tended to confirm the relevance of the affective components of the definition; the surveys were not structured to address other aspects of assemblage creation. Respondents perceived their virtual-world places as quite real and occupied by real selves (however they defined real), and as centers of meaning and locations for homes. The verdict was more mixed regarding the importance of familiar trappings to their virtual places. There was overwhelming acknowledgment that their places had changed over time. Correlation data showed a high degree of association between the personal-­ improvement statement and the extent to which place was involved in the respondent’s effort to learn about his/her actual-world self.

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In the aggregate, respondents used their places for work and play, although the latter more than the former. Their places were frequently viewed as emotional and/or physical refuges. The uses of their places as locations for personal improvement were important to a large proportion of respondents. There was ambiguity about the extent to which the data confirmed the types of places presented in the proposed classification. There was less disagreement among respondents than expected about the significance of the various questionnaire statements regarding their places. This homogeneity left open the possibility that respondents constituted a single virtual-world persona that engaged different places in similar ways. On the other hand, when the individual place categories were separated and responses examined, there was sufficient agreement to support a tentative validation of the categories as defined for purposes of this study. There is little doubt that these categories can be described as overlapping circles. Is place still a place in social virtual worlds? The answer is yes. Are there differences sufficient to create uniquely virtual places? The answer is yes and no. The answer is probably yes as extrapolated from the logic presented in the conceptual narrative. We can argue for meaningful differences between virtual- and actual-world places in at least some of the heterogeneous entities and forces engaged in complex relations with the virtual environment. The physics associated with Ana’s things are different. Her daily practices may be different (as in, oops! I need to fly off to work!). Her friends, memories, and stories are hers and associated with her places (though perhaps stored remotely in the user). The answer is no in terms of feelings. The affective side of virtual place seems to be little different from what we find in the actual world. Users were tied closely to their virtual places as centers of meaning and home-like settings.

Vignettes Vignette 4.1 Assemblage and Ana’s Thick Places Müller (2015, p. 28) described an assemblage as an ordering of heterogeneous entities that work together for a certain time. This ordering is present in virtual worlds, though the heterogeneous entities involved in the ordering processes may be dissimilar.

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The physical entities in a virtual world can be quite different. For example, there are brick-and-mortar structures in Second Life, but there is no “brick-and-mortar.” There are construction units—“prims,” as they are called in Second Life—but there is much less effort required to build a structure than in the actual world. A few days will produce an elaborate Victorian-style building, if that is the goal, complete with a furnished interior. Plant life, though often beautiful replicas of the actual world, does not require years or decades to grow—“poof ” and they are there (Fig. A.1). Part of the convenience comes from the fact that everything from plants to furnishings to house types are infinitely and immediately reproducible, with clicking a mouse the only labor required. Otherwise, it is all just the “same” as in the actual world! Heterogeneous “entities” (consistent with “assemblage” thinking) are more subject to intent, and less subject to contingency, in a social virtual world. Ana, for example, has a roof over her house. Why is this? There is no naturally occurring weather—if it rains, it is because somebody programmed it to rain—and roofs serve to the psychological benefit of the user rather than the protection of the avatar. Nobody builds a roof just in

Fig. A.1  Ana in her front yard. (These plants took but seconds to grow. Source: Picture by author)

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case it rains. Ana’s user feels good about roofs on houses, which is why her house has a roof (Fig. A.2). The functioning of “affect” tends to remain the same in the social virtual world as in the actual world. The heterogeneous entities that contribute to the ordering of a virtual place contribute to feelings of attachment and meaning. Geographers may be tripped up by whence the “affect” comes and where it resides related to virtual places. We may ask whether it is the avatar, the user, or perhaps some facet or extension of the user that is being satisfied? If the immersed Ana feels affect toward her home through her user—at least some aspect of her user and perhaps an aspect not typically on public display—then it is still affect, perhaps mentally superimposed on the avatar (we should let philosophers and psychologists have the final word here). Affect has contributed to the development of “thick” places, especially related to her home and office (Fig. A.3). Over the years, Ana has accumulated experiences (mostly good), cultivated friendships, and built memories. She will acknowledge Duff’s (2010) description of feel and

Fig. A.2  Ana on her back deck with friends. (The sun is shining. Thank you whoever set the sun to shine, although the house has a roof in case somebody sets it to rain. Source: Picture by author)

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emotional resonance in her home. She will concede, also, that over the years, there has been an “affective engagement” with her home as an interactive and constantly emerging gathering of feelings, thoughts, ideas, reflections, activities, creation and practice of habits, decisions about furnishings, and everything else, both human and nonhuman (however human and nonhuman should be defined in an electronic world!). Yes, her home is that place that leaves behind traces of “lived intensity” that are reactivated through practice and interaction—by Ana showing up yet again, coming home to a new round of affective experience (things are different every day). And like Duff’s students, this sense of connection and belonging to place, her home, redounds to the well-being of her actual-world user. In brief, Ana has a virtual “home-sweet-home.” Most of Ana’s other locations are the “thin” places described by Duff (2010), those places that, yes, even in a social virtual world, create the “fungible uniformity” to which there is a more banal affective response. One of Ana’s favorite shopping destinations is a huge store that sells business attire for women. Nice place. Looks like many other apparel stores. But there is nothing in the interaction that creates the affective response

Fig. 4.3  Ana at home by the fire. (A “thick” place at its best! Source: Picture by author)

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of her home—“yes, a great outfit, looks good on me, I’ll take it,” is about as “thick” as it gets.

Vignette 4.2 Home-Grown Universities Social virtual worlds have always intrigued educators for their pedagogical possibilities. While this interest in engagement can be seen at all levels, colleges and universities from around the globe have led the charge to develop virtual-world campuses. Relatively unsung have been the efforts of “home-grown” universities like the Rockcliffe University Consortium. Started in 2006 by Phelan Corrimal, Rockcliffe was intended to provide the experiential educational opportunities made possible by a virtual world (Fig. A.4). By 2009, Rockcliffe had a Second-Life campus, widespread interaction with the Second-Life nonprofit community, involvement of 40–50 actual-world universities, and a peer-reviewed journal (Journal of Virtual Studies). Rockcliffe was a major organizer (and continues to be) of the Virtual

Fig. A.4  Rockcliffe University Consortium. (Phelan Corrimal standing in front of the Rockcliffe library and administration buildings (https://urockcliffe.com/ about/). Source: Picture by author)

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Worlds Best Practices in Education conferences in Second Life which at one point could count on perhaps 4000 attendees. Rockcliffe remains actively pursuing its mission to provide an environment for educational innovation, including affordability for students and teachers. Like with many of its actual-world counterparts, sufficient financial resources remain a problem. There is no paid staff. The cost of books and journals make running a fully configured library difficult. It is hard to take advantage of nonprofit status when living in a world created by a for-profit corporation (Linden Lab). And then, there are the various accreditation issues. Phelan promised that Rockcliffe will remain in the social virtual world as long as Rockcliffe’s model remains relevant. Caledon Oxbridge University has the look of a traditional institution of higher learning (Fig. A.5). A walk through the campus is to experience an ivy-scented Victorian moment, in keeping with the steampunk theme of the larger region. The university administration has offices with familiar titles: Chancellor, Dean of Commons, Dean of Development, Dean of Education. There are colleges. The mission, however, is more

Fig. A.5  Caledon Oxbridge University. (The Victorian look of Caledon Oxbridge University in Second Life (see http://www.caledonoxbridge.org/). Source: Picture by author)

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circumscribed than that of  the typical actual-world “university, and focuses on, helping new users adapt to the virtual-world setting and supporting experienced avatars with training in scripting, building, animations and the other components of Second Life.” The catalog includes courses like “Making a Flexi-Skirt,” “Time to Make a Clock,” “Avatar Animation,” and “Introduction to Role-Playing.” If the purpose of a university is to serve the needs of the local population, Caledon Oxbridge excels in its purpose. Other Second-Life groups have produced a hybrid model in which an in-world developer builds educational facilities that are used on an ad hoc basis by actual-world institutions. There is no better illustration of this than Denise Infinity’s Anima sim. Initially intended to support geographically dispersed colleges and universities in the Middle Atlantic region of the U.S., she and her colleagues now provide meeting and office space for actual-world educational institutions that want a limited footprint in Second Life. Full disclosure: the author’s in-world office is located in one of these buildings (Fig. A.6).

Fig. A.6  Author’s office in Second Life. Making use of collaborative educational space. Looks better than the actual-­ world equivalent!

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Vignette 4.3 Have to Dance (Virtually)! Virtual worlds like Second Life provide exciting new possibilities for performance innovation and artistic virtuosity. The Spirit Light Dance Company (SLDC) of Second Life puts these possibilities on full display. Caryl Meredith is the founder and Artistic Director of the SLDC. She is a retired classically trained dancer in the actual world who is no longer able to display her artistry on an actual-world stage. She discovered about ten years ago, however, that she was able to do it all on a virtual stage. Working with colleagues, she fused virtual-world technologies with actual-world dancing standards to produce choreographic experiences that not only met, but exceeded, actual-world expectations. She now runs a dance company with over two-dozen dancers and a small volunteer staff, and performs publicly several times a year (Fig. A.7). Choreography in an electronic world is not an easy endeavor. It is a challenge to create the flow and sense of wonder that will excite and touch audiences (Figs. A.8, A.9 and A.10). Each choreographer must

Fig. A.7  Lobby of the Spirit Light Dance Company’s performance venue. (Caryl Meredith is the Artistic Director of one of the most innovative and prestigious dance organizations in Second Life)

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Fig. A.8  Dancing to seasonal favorites

Fig. A.9  Fantasy is elevated to new levels through costuming and set design

choose the music, get his/her set in a “rezzer” and on the stage. Costuming is the next issue—you make your own or find some somebody who can do it for you. The choreographer runs the dance HUD and often the mover as well; if an operator is needed to help out, that person must be trained. So, the choreographer not only creates the dance on the stage but designs and manages operations behind the scenes. And it is all live! The

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Fig. A.10  Caryl Meredith with MJ in an SLDC reception area, a picture of dancers in the background

experience for the company and the audience can be exhilarating—for the choreographers, a chance to show their dance chops, many for the first time; for the audience, a migration of the mind and body to a world of wonderment. Who are these people? They are all volunteers. Most of them have, shall we say, a “mature” engagement with life—that is, the average actual-­ world age is about 65. They participate, in some cases, because they have always aspired to dance but have never been able to follow through on their aspirations. In other cases, like with Caryl, they hope to continue virtually what they can no longer do physically. They represent the best of what virtual worlds offer its users—second chances, second lives, second moments of fulfillment. The SLDC also gives life to the technological possibilities of social virtual worlds. When the dancers fly, there are no cables attached to their bodies. Exquisitely designed sets can be assembled, scripted, and instantly “de-rezzed” (electronically stored) in ways difficult or impossible in the actual world, and in only a fraction of the time. Yes, actual-world movies

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can provide the same effects, but not with the sense of presence that accompanies the live experience, and actual-world equivalents are obscenely expensive by comparison. Some people may write off virtual-world organizations such as the SLDC as pandering to escapist desires, both for dancers and for audience members. But what is an actual-world movie or theater experience if not, at least a little bit, escapist? Escapism can be therapeutic, especially if you don’t feel compelled to show your AARP card to be admitted.

References Agnew, J. A. (1987). Place and politics: The geographical mediation of state and society. Allen & Unwin. Anderson, B. (2019). Cultural geography II: The force of representations. Progress in Human Geography, 43(6), 1120–1132. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 0309132518761431 Anderson, B., & Harrison, P. (Eds.). (2010). Taking-place: Non-representational theories and geography (Repr.). Ashgate. Anderson, B., & McFarlane, C. (2011). Assemblage and geography. Area, 43(2), 124–127. Anyetei, S., & Ajayi, N. (2021). The potential adoption of second life as a platform for learning. In P. Ndayizigamiye, G. Barlow-Jones, R. Brink, S. Bvuma, R. Minty, & S. Mhlongo (Eds.), Perspectives on ICT4D and socio-economic growth opportunities in developing countries (pp.  278–302). IGI Global. https://doi.org/10.4018/978-­1-­7998-­2983-­6 Ash, J., Kitchin, R., & Leszczynski, A. (2018). Digital turn, digital geographies? Progress in Human Geography, 42(1), 25–43. Beckett, A. E., Bagguley, P., & Campbell, T. (2017). Foucault, social movements and heterotopic horizons: Rupturing the order of things. Social Movement Studies, 16(2), 169–181. Berger, M., Jucker, A. H., & Locher, M. A. (2016). Interaction and space in the virtual world of second life. Journal of Pragmatics, 101, 83–100. Bleize, D.  N. M., & Antheunis, M.  L. (2019). Factors influencing purchase intent in virtual worlds: A review of the literature. Journal of Marketing Communications, 25(4), 403–420. https://doi.org/10.1080/13527266.2016. 1278028

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Boellstorff, T. (2008). Coming of age in second life: An anthropologist explores the virtually human. Princeton University Press. Buttimer, A., & Seamon, D. (1980). The human experience of space and place. St. Martin’s. Cadman, L. (2009). Non-representational theory/non-representational geographies. In R. Kitchin & T. Nigel (Eds.), International Encyclopedia of human geography (Vol. 1-one, pp. 456–463). Elsevier. Carden, C. (2019). Living (in) cities of the past: Time travel in second life. Rethinking History, 23(3), 324–338. Casey, E. S. (2001). Between geography and philosophy: What does it mean to be in the place-world? Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 91(4), 683–693. Castells, M. (1996). The rise of the network society (2nd ed., with a new pref ). Wiley-Blackwell. Childs, M., Schnieders, H. L., & Williams, G. (2012). “This above all: to thine own self be true”: ethical considerations and risks in conducting Higher Education learning activities in the virtual world Second Life ™. Interactive Learning Environments, 20(3), 253–269. https://doi.org/10.1080/1049482 0.2011.641679 Cloutier, J. (2018). Marginalized urban indigenous youth and the virtual world of second life: Understanding the past and building a hopeful future. Journal of Virtual Worlds Research, 11(2), 1–13. Cresswell, T. (2009). Place. In R.  Kitchin & T.  Nigel (Eds.), International Encyclopedia of human geography (Vol. 1-one, pp. 169–177). Elsevier. Cresswell, T. (2015). Place: An introduction (2nd ed.). J. Wiley & Sons. Cresswell, T., & Hoskins, G. (2008). Place, persistence, and practice: Evaluating historical significance at Angel Island, San Francisco, and Maxwell street, Chicago. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 98(2), 392–413. Dahlman, C., & Renwick, W. H. (2014). Introduction to geography: People, places & environment (6th ed.). Pearson Education, Inc. De Landa, M. (2006). A new philosophy of society: Assemblage theory and social complexity. Continuum. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A thousand plateaus: Capitalism and schizophrenia. University of Minnesota Press. Dittmer, J. (2014). Geopolitical assemblages and complexity. Progress in Human Geography, 38(4), 385–401. Duff, C. (2010). On the role of affect and practice in the production of place. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 28(5), 881–895.

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5 Whither Social Virtual Worlds and Their Geographers

Chapter 1 set the stage for our study of social virtual worlds. We introduced the “players,” if you will, in the form of Ana and JT and Meryl and MJ. Ana and JT are completely immersed residents of Second Life, serving as in-world guides. Meryl and MJ are the fully transparent managers of the surveys and “doppelgängers” of the author. We summarized the basics of the avatar. We described the makeup of the mixed-methods analysis used in several parts of the study and explained who participated. Finally, we offered a “Virtual Worlds 101” experience in which we introduced the reader to the avatar, the concept of a social virtual world (and it is not a game!), and how the social virtual world may or may not fit into the geographer’s craft. In Chap. 2, we asked the rhetorical question, “where in the world are we?” We examined how the social virtual world could be integrated into what geographers do and think. We reviewed a selection of social virtual worlds, their characteristics and their maps. We noted the variations in virtual worlds on map usage and design, from the flat-earth renditions found in Second Life and Alpha World to the highly localized micro-­ geography maps characteristic of worlds like IMVU and Sinespace. We discussed the meaning of concocted geographies, probed the value of GISc, cartography, and deep mapping to virtual worlds. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 M. L. Johnson, Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-8626-9_5

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We asked in Chap. 3 who it was that occupied these electronic spaces. We found, first, that people join social virtual worlds for a variety of reasons that include curiosity, retreat from actual lives, interaction with friends, making money, expressing creativity, and even finding help with actual-world issues. We tried artfully to avoid the worst philosophical thickets in exploring whether virtual space is actually “real”—it is— which preceded a discussion of the self, embodiment, and presence. We concluded that many avatars represent their users as “just me,” the “real me,” or “more than me,” although a notable minority perceived their avatar embodiments as the more immersive “other than me.” These findings suggested that most avatars fit within what Veerapen, Wardle, Schultze and Leahy, and other writers described as the less-immersive categories in their continua. For most avatars, a sense of telepresence (being there) and context (social presence) accompanied their embodiments, although survey respondents tended to commingle their understandings of presence. Most respondents agreed that, at least to some degree, presence in a social virtual world was separate from the actual world. We looked, then, at how the avatar may affect the user, a feedback effect that is not trivial and ranges from exercise buddies to psychological mentors. Finally, we asked if avatar cultures are different? They are, shaped by “emergent” and “residual” forces. We concluded that the avatar may be “me,” although being “me” may not be as straightforward as we think. In Chap. 4, we asked whether a place is still a place in social virtual worlds and answered the question with a “yes.” We began with a review of the recent conceptual pathways followed by geographers in the analysis of place, including Tuan’s place as a center of meaning; Pred’s contest between structure and agency; non-representational theory and Thrift’s geography of what happens; Entrikin’s fully dimensional geographical agent as a place maker; the gathering of things, material and not material, that constitute assemblages; and related place conceptualizations. From these antecedents, we composed a definition of virtual-world place as something “real” and inhabited by real selves, a source of meaning and affect, constituted by a gathering of heterogeneous entities and forces in relation with the virtual environment at multiple scales, and constantly emerging or becoming. We proposed and examined a classification of

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social virtual worlds that included commercial/government/public places, places for embodiment re-creation, places for improvement and respite, places for intellectual and artistic engagement, and primarily residential places. Review of survey data confirmed the relevance of the affective components of the definition. Aggregate trends indicated that respondents used their places for work (mostly) and play (always), that their places were frequently viewed as emotional and/or physical refuges, and that use of their places as locations for personal improvement was important for a large proportion of respondents. Correlation data showed a high degree of association between the personal-improvement statement and the extent to which place was involved in the respondent’s effort to learn about his/her actual-world self. There was ambiguity about whether the data supported the place classification presented in the study, although there was an insufficient basis to invalidate the categories when analysis was done at a more granular level. The findings suggested the existence of a relatively undifferentiated persona that engaged different places in similar ways. At a minimum, the place-classification system was composed of overlapping circles.

Whither Social Virtual Worlds Social virtual worlds are not going anywhere. It is hard to know what virtual worlds will look like in the future and how avatars will be used, but social and technological trajectories point to an increasingly important role in our social fabric. How can we say this? First, people cannot seem to let virtual worlds go. Because Second Life slid into relative obscurity (see Jamison, 2017) and may be viewed as silly and irrelevant by naysayers, does not mean that the concept was flawed or that social virtual worlds should no longer be a subject of interest. A search for VR-enabled social worlds continues, so far with mixed results (think Sansar and High Fidelity—see Manthorpe, 2016; Metz, 2017), but still moving forward. New worlds are appearing—Sinespace imagines itself as a next generation in the Second-Life lineage. Second Life generates enough curiosity to produce thousands of new residents each month, has

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a reliable daily count in the tens of thousands of avatars, and remains financially viable. Virtual worlds still produce stunning artistic expressions. Avatar stories are told and published, especially by the likes of Draxtor Depres (www.draxtor.com. See his extraordinarily creative and poignant narratives in YouTube). Wagner James Au (https://nwn.blogs. com/nwn/) keeps his finger on the virtual-world pulse with his New World Notes blog. Multiple educational and science groups regularly meet to discuss issues that easily could find a place in many university symposia. Even National Public Radio checks in on occasion.1 Second, the potential for increased global collaboration remains an attraction feature of social virtual worlds, an appeal that may be growing. As of this writing, the Covid-19 pandemic is raging. Online education is the rule and true face-to-face instruction is the exception. Online communication and collaboration across all sectors have become standard practice—indeed, the world’s languages have a new verb: to zoom. But simply joining a Zoom conference is only a partial replacement for “being there.” We are reminded of the words of key-informant Valibrarian Gregg, cited above, who commented that “I find the biggest advantage of virtual worlds over say a webinar or ZOOM—is the sense of presence … By that I mean …. We are in a shared space that is ‘real’ not just peeking through the window into our homes or cafes in the physical world.” Joanne Lipman (2021, p.  59), writing for Time Magazine, recently observed that, post-pandemic, “Some of the shortcomings of remote work—the lack of camaraderie and mentoring, the fear of being forgotten—may ultimately be bridged by new technology.” She was referring to the presence created by augmented reality (as in Pokémon Go), but only a short (and less expensive) step is required to achieve a full virtual-world presence that will create a setting in which remote workers “‘seem’ to be in the room with on-site workers.” The collaborative capabilities of social virtual worlds have not been lost as we move to a potential new normal 1  There are multiple examples, but see especially the 2009 interview involving NPR’s Scott Simon and New Mexico State University’s geography professor, Dr. Michael DeMers (https://www.npr. org/sections/sundaysoapbox/2009/03/scott_simon_looks_for_coffee_i_1.html); and the 2020 Science Friday trip back to Second Life, featuring former and present residents including Beragon Betts of the Science Friday Next Generation (https://www.sciencefriday.com/segments/ second-life-science-friday/)

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in communication. It is all about how we communicate and how we feel around those with whom we are communicating in a world in which novel forms of electronic interaction have been forced into the public spotlight. We can ask, perhaps as only a rhetorical extrapolation, if the social presence produced in a virtual world will help to combat some of the lost conversation described by Turkle (2015) by creating a new form of “face-to-face” engagement. Third, there are things that can be done in a social virtual world that complement what we do in our actual spaces—indeed, the laws of virtual-­ world physics permit some things only dreamt of in actual worlds. These possibilities are especially evident to educators exploring pedagogical innovations in, for example, three-dimensional modeling to support classroom activities (for geographers, the 2011 writing of DeMers should still resonate). A number of years ago, for example, an in-world educator built a walk-through human testis to help explain biology to his students—why that organ, who knows, but it helped with learning. The same types of innovation can be found in the arts (see the vignette on dancing) and elsewhere. More recently, and as described in the last chapter, a hypothesized re-creation of a paleoscene riverine landscape was modeled for students (and anybody else) to engage as if they were there, as if watching and experiencing the environment in person. Finally, the mystery and allure of the avatar are unlikely to disappear. It involves embodiment of the “other,” whatever we believe the other to be and however we think that it should be manifest. For many people, something happens when they engage an alter ego on the other side of the screen—something mysterious, unexplainable, but appealing. This engagement may be a part of the larger search for understanding the mechanics and power of virtual embodiments and out-of-body experiences described by Rothman (2018), or maybe it is just plain curiosity. For some people, admittedly, the embodiment of the “other” elicits more unwelcoming responses: disdain, dismissiveness, silliness, and in some cases even intimidation at the prospect of entering a new skin. That does not mean that the “other,” however, will go away.

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 ocial Virtual Worlds and the Geographer’s S Craft, and What Is Left to Do At the beginning of this study, we asked the question whether the geographical study of social virtual worlds was worth the effort. This author thinks so. The effort, however, may require different terms of geographical engagement. First, there is a lot less “space” and a lot more “place” to be concerned about. With some exceptions—for example, the Second-­Life grid—space is more a matter of computer coding than “terrestrial” extent, with space considerations limited to micro-geographies. Places, on the other hand, are everywhere. Virtual places often “look” like actual-­world places and their evolution may track actual-world processes; however, they present an additional layer of complexity because of the technological setting. There is more to “gather,” using assemblage terminology, in understanding virtual-world places. Second, there are the “people” who inhabit these worlds. Human geographers already are challenged to understand the makeup and behavior of actual-world populations; but when we add avatar “people” who express hidden personas, multiple incarnations (e.g., “alts”), and even nonhuman forms, and when we engage their in-world cultures, the task becomes even more daunting—and exciting! This study produced as many questions as conclusions. Future researchers, both geographers and others, may find an interest in topics that include: • User age: The survey data presented in this study, for example, suggested a clear “graying” of the population (though not usually revealed by looking at avatars!). Most respondents were over 50 years in age. Perhaps other places appeal to younger users, or maybe social virtual worlds increasingly are the domain of the older set. In the case of the latter, why are younger users absent? • Racial/ethnic diversity of avatars: To the casual observer, it may seem that a disproportionate number of avatars have a “WASP” look. If this is the case, why?

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• The role of “alts”: This study made periodic reference to user “alts”— that is, more than one avatar attached to the same user account. Indeed, a large proportion of survey respondents reported use of alts. How does the use of “alts” relate to  our understanding of avatar populations? • Context effects: More insight into “social presence” in virtual worlds should be valuable to geographers. How does social presence help to define populations and their places—their similarities and differences with actual-world counterparts? • Identity: While identity studies may more appropriately be the domain of psychologists, sociologists, and philosophers, geographers have a role to play in relating identity to space and place. A geography of immersed avatars, for example, may look and behave differently than a geography of avatars as objects or some form of cyborgian extensions. On a related note, there is anecdotal evidence that avatars are becoming less immersed. Why would this be and what would be the implications for the human geography of virtual worlds? • Place: The dynamics of virtual-world place-creation clearly deserve further geographical attention. The place-classification system and subsequent analysis in this study are preliminary at best. Future work also could focus on place/identity ecosystems, perhaps based on the correlation-summarizing capabilities of factor- or principal-­ components analysis. • Spatial analysis: Is there a way of doing spatial analysis in worlds in which geographic information may not be spatially expressed? Is GISc relevant? Do cartographic design principles mean anything in a virtual world? How do we understand cartographic communication? • Survey analysis: The surveys used in this study were revealing, but insufficient. It is difficult to recruit avatars to participate in a survey (that is one reason researchers often rely on the use of classroom students); but with more time and resources greater data collection is possible leading, we hope, to an improved understanding of the social virtual world at hand.

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Other issues are broader in nature. First, building a functional avatar and learning how to navigate social virtual worlds are not for the technical faint of heart. When the author first entered Second Life in 2006, the avatar was simple to work with and, quite honestly, looked simple. Now the typical avatar is a technological masterpiece by comparison and has lost much of its cartoonish appearance. To achieve this look, however, the new user must be somewhat conversant in the logic of “mesh skins,” “bento heads,” “shape sliders,” etc. While this type of knowledge may also be required on other platforms, and younger generations may feel more at home with such expertise, this complexity may create a barrier to entry that inhibits widespread adoption of three-dimensional worlds. On the hand, the technology may not yet be technical enough! Avatars need gesture improvement beyond those that are currently scripted to engage fully in communication with each other and to enhance the sense of presence. One computer scientist interviewed for this book, an active member of Second Life, observed that virtual worlds need to aspire to gaming levels of resolution and sophistication to enhance the feeling of “being there.” Second, issues related to the geography of technology usage in general also affect social virtual worlds. For example, the “digital divide” introduced by Warf in 2001, and still a subject of discussion (see Warf, 2001, 2020; Pick and Sarker 2015), influences the impact of social virtual worlds. It is difficult to create the propinquity of an electronic presence, a hallmark of the social virtual world, that brings into the same “place” participants from across the globe if the technology is absent or otherwise insufficient to engage the social virtual world. While things have improved dramatically since 2001, a conversation is still necessary about the extent to which portions of the global physical  community remain excluded from the promise of a global electronic community. Third, as briefly mentioned above, virtual-world places are usually corporate-world spaces. What does the presence of a corporate superstructure mean to the “life” pursued in a world like Second Life? If there is a dispute in-world among multinational users, where does jurisdiction lie, whose laws pertain (recognizing that Linden Lab is a California corporation), how are remedies

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enforced, and how is criminality resolved? Are there different rules? Is rape really rape, for example, in a social virtual world if the potential victim can simply log out? Equally vexing, to what extent does the corporation come to know invasively the user and their avatar(s)? In fairness, organizations such as Second Life publish strict privacy rules, but it is the possibility of circumventing such protections that may be off-putting to users, especially to users whose avatars have been exploring behaviors beyond the limits of “acceptable” society. Are social virtual worlds contributing to the rise of the “surveillance capitalism” that increasingly defines the world of big data, according to some observers (see, for example, Zuboff, 2015).

Say Goodnight, Ana Just as Ana and JT introduced this study, they conclude it. For them, the analytical abstractions discussed in this study mean relatively little. They go about their daily business as embodiments of their users’ “otherness,” creating their own stories and enacting their increasingly independent identities. They do so in the thick places that truly feel like home and the thin places that define their larger circles of engagement. For them and for their users, social virtual worlds have produced not only new geographies but new realms of meaning. No, they are not like everybody else in social virtual worlds in terms of identity definition and lifestyles; but they are like everybody else in their acceptance of social virtual worlds as a part of a larger social fabric. And they are excited about the future. Social virtual worlds are not going away and geographers need to be part of the discussion about how these worlds are shaped and what they mean, especially since there are millions of people involved in social virtual worlds at some level. It is hard to imagine that these new dimensions of existence would not be worth geographical notice. Good night, Ana. Good night, JT (Fig. 5.1).

292 

M. L. Johnson

Fig. 5.1  JT and Ana enjoying the fire at the end of the day

References DeMers, M. (2011). Subject matter content creation for second life delivery: Teaching GIS in second life. In G. Vincenti & J. Braman (Eds.), Teaching through multi-user virtual environments: Applying dynamic elements to the modern classroom. IGI Global. https://doi.org/10.4018/978-­1-­61692-­822-­3 Jamison, L. (2017, December). The digital ruins of a forgotten future. The Atlantic. https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/12/second-­ life-­leslie-­jamison/544149/. Accessed 3 February 2021. Lipman, J. (2021, June 7). The great reopening: The workplace doesn’t work. Now’s the chance to reinvent it. Time Magazine, 56–59. Manthorpe, R. (2016). Remember Second Life? Now it’s being reborn in virtual reality. Wired UK. https://flipboard.com/@iChrisMorland/remember-­ second-­life-­now-­it-­s-­being-­reborn-­in-­virtual-­reality/f-­a16cc46e15%2Fco. uk?format=amp Metz, R. (2017, January 27). Second life is back for a third life, this time in virtual reality. MIT Technology Review. technologyreview.com/s/603422. Pick, J. B. and A. Sarkar. (2015) The global digital divides: Explaining change. Berlin: Springer Berlin Heidelberg.

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Rothman, J. (2018, March 26). Are we already living in virtual reality? The New Yorker. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/04/02/are-­we-­ already-­living-­in-­virtual-­reality Turkle, S. (2015). Reclaiming conversation: The power of talk in a digital age. Penguin Press. Warf, B. (2001). Segueways into cyberspace: Multiple geographies of the digital divide. Environment and Planning B: Planning and Design, 28(1), 3–19. Warf, B. (Ed.). (2020). Geographies of the internet. Routledge. Zuboff, S. (2015). Big other: Surveillance capitalism and the prospects of an information civilization. Journal of Information Technology, 30(1), 75–89. https://doi.org/10.1057/jit.2015.5

Appendices

Appendix A: Survey Technical Details This study used a series of interviews to provide an empirically based context for discussion of the conceptual material presented in the study. These surveys embraced a mixed-methods approach and included (1) key-informant interviews, (2) questionnaires, and (3) focus groups. The mechanics involved in the design and administration of these surveys are discussed below. All the surveys were conducted in Second Life during the fall of 2020.

Approvals and Survey Management Institutional Approval The surveys included in this study were submitted by Dr. Merrill Johnson to the Colorado State University Institutional Review Board (IRB) for review and approval. The operative approval language contained in the larger eProtocol document is presented in Table A.1:

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 M. L. Johnson, Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-8626-9

295

Johnson, Merrill

09/30/2020

Review Decision

Form Type

07/28/2023 Designated AMENDMENT review

Last Approval Expiration Approval Date Date Date

The geographer‘’s 07/29/2020 guide to virtual worlds

Principal Investigator Title

Source: See https://csu.keyusa.net/showPIDashBoard.do. Accessed multiple times, most recently November 5, 2020 Dr. Johnson completed his requirements for CITI (Collaborative Institutional Training Initiative) certification in late summer 2019

20-10185H

Protocol ID

Approved Protocols

Table A.1  Approval statement by Colorado State University Institutional Review Board

296 Appendices

 Appendices 

297

Survey Management All survey-related activities were conducted within Second Life. A special “interview center,” complete with Colorado State University logos, was secured on an educational sim. Most interaction was at the avatar level, using avatar names, although there was occasional correspondence involving email accounts. There was never actual-world face-to-face contact. In most cases, the actual-world name of the avatar’s user was unknown, although actual-world information was occasionally divulged in the course of a conversation. Most interaction with avatars was done with the author’s avatar named Meryl McBride, who not only had a Second-Life presence but a named email account. Other interaction was managed by Merrill Johin (MJ). MJ was only used in special cases—for example, where he already had a special relationship with the manager of the group or organization that was included in the surveys. Survey transcripts and other documents were initially housed in the Meryl McBride/MJ in-world accounts and later transferred to Microsoft Word and Excel files. Ultimately, these documents were preserved in separate media pursuant to requirements stipulated in the IRB application. Questionnaire results were anonymous and stored in the author’s SurveyMonkey account. Survey subjects were recruited using a “snowballing” procedure that ultimately involved four steps: (1) an informal visit with a person of interest in Second Life, some of whom were already known by the author, others who were recommended to the author; (2) if appropriate, an arrangement with this person to submit to a key-informant interview at which the interviewee not only responded to interview questions, but identified potential focus-group participants; (3) contact with potential focus-group participants about their interest in participating in the research; and (4) convening a focus group that included administration of the questionnaire to participants. In some cases, there were “specialized” interviews of key informants that did not lead to focus-group meetings—for example, the interviews with map experts. Finally, there were instances when questionnaires were sent to possible group respondents in

298 Appendices

a more blanket fashion, outside the focus-group setting. Participants were recruited from the different “types” of places in Second Life, driven by the place classifications outlined in an earlier section of the study. Recruiting research subjects could be problematic. First, true “coldcalling” on sim managers and/or group leaders was largely unproductive. The majority simply did not respond to the initial inquiries. The best way to recruit subjects was to be recommended by a mutual friend, or a friend of a friend, and to ask the sim manager and/or group leader to make the initial entreaty to the membership about responding to the surveys. Second, even when the person in a leadership position encouraged members to participate, good intentions did not necessarily lead to good participation. After all, many of these people were unlikely to carve out the time to respond to a survey about subjects that they may or may not have interested them, promoted by a researcher whom they may or may not knew—all this in an actual-world culture that is saturated by survey requests. Third, Second-Life residents come from all over the world. The people that we see close together in electronic space may be spread across continents in physical space. Finding a time in which people could be brought together as a group was difficult and kept some prospective participants from being active in the survey process; this was less true with questionnaires. Offering multiple focus groups at different times for the same type of population was an option, but ultimately was not practical in terms of the time needed. All key-informant and focus-group participants were asked to complete consent statements before proceeding (different types of consent were received from the special interviews). These statements were approved by the Colorado State University IRB. The notecard feature in Second Life was used, with the interviewer “dropping” the card on the interviewee for signature, and the interviewee dropping the completed notecard back on the interviewer. Avatar names were used. Consent statements were not required for the questionnaires since they returned results that were completely anonymous.

 Appendices 

299

Survey Structures Key-Informant Interviews Key-informant interviews involved the use of “experts” to provide detailed perceptions and understandings of the context in which a particular study was conducted. A number of longstanding and prominent participants in Second Life were asked to sit in-world with the author’s avatar and address broad themes about social virtual worlds. Most of these interviewees were managers of sims that were brought into the surveys or were leaders of affiliated groups. The discussion format was semi-structured with the interviewee encouraged to say whatever he/she wished to say in connection with each topic. We asked for a 30-­minute discussion period but stayed as long as the respondents had things to say (the longest interview was well over two hours). Discussion topics included (1) basic demographic information; (2) motivations for entering and remaining in Second Life; (3) how the interviewee perceived the relationship between avatars and their drivers; (4) the meaning of place to interviewees, and how they perceived their memberships understanding place; and (5) anything else the interviewee wished to discuss. Apart from the demographic information, the emphasis was on the interviewee’s “perceptions.” The interviews were conducted in text-chat and the transcripts were preserved. A key-informant “script” was created to guide the conversation. There was no requirement that the interviewee respond to any of these topics. The script that was referred to is copied, below:

“Key-Informant” Survey: Script Please note that any of the interview that follows may or may not be referred to or quoted in the forthcoming book, depending on editorial decisions. You may ask to go “off the record” at any time. • Basic demographic information about the key informant.

300 Appendices

Introductory question: “Please share with me who you are in Second Life and the physical world, keeping in mind that you do not need to reveal anything about your “real-world” existence that you do not wish to share.” • Motivations: Introductory questions: –– What were your original motivations for entering Second Life, and did the same motivations keep you interested in Second Life? –– Given your experience with this sim (or sims), how would you describe the motivations of the people who participate here? Or can you? • Identity: How this person defines his/her SL identity relative to the person’s RL identity? How has this identity evolved? We make use primarily of the Veerapen categories, moving from the most transparent to potentially the most immersed: “avatar-as-object—transparent property of the user and has no existence without the user’s presence”; “avatar-as-­prosthesis”—an extension of the user beyond the physical world; “avatar-as-phantom limb”—potentially a sensory extension of the user; and “avatar as equal”—the phenomenal being with a presence of its own, perhaps the most immersed of the various categories. We do not exclude the ideas of Wardle, Evans, Schultze, and others. Introductory questions: –– How do you describe your relationship with your avatar? –– Transparent, property of user, no distinction between RL/SL? –– Sort of a prosthesis or extension of RL user? –– Almost a phantom limb—a sensory extension, can smell the roses? –– A presence of its own, an immersed being that feels separate and apart from the driver (except for driver’s motor skills). –– Has this relationship between you and your avatar changed over time?

 Appendices 

301

–– How do you think most of the people in the group view this relationship between their avatars and their RL selves? • Place: It is unrealistic to expect that all the aspects of virtual places, as discussed above, can be examined here, given the scope of this survey. It is possible, however, to report on user feelings and perceptions as users engage virtual-world places. Specifically, informants will be asked to address the “affective” component of place—particularly in terms of “thick” vs. “thin” places—and how place constitutes a “center of meaning.” Respondents will also be asked to describe how things have changed over time. Informants will be queried about what makes the virtual space a place, in their thinking? Along the same lines, informants will be asked to describe the importance of familiar furnishings, etc., in creating and defining a sense of place. Introductory questions: –– Do you have special feelings for your “place” or “places” in SL, particularly your “home” place? Can you describe these feelings? –– Do you see your place or places as ‘centers of meaning’? Can you describe this meaning? –– Do you consider your place or places to be “real”? If so, what makes them real? If not, is your place more of a projection of some sort? –– What role do familiar surroundings (e.g., furnishings, structures, etc.) play? –– Do you try to cultivate a sense of place among participants/ players/ members involved in your place or places? If so, how? Do you think your cultivation is successful? What would you change? • Future?: Do you think social virtual worlds such as Second Life have a “future”? If so, why? Will they look the same? If not, why not?

302 Appendices

Questionnaires The key-informant interviews provided starting points for additional collection of information using questionnaire-based surveys and focus groups. Respondents selected for the focus groups were asked at the beginning of the focus-group meeting to complete the questionnaire, after which they came together into a focus group. The questionnaire contained 61 questions and was designed to take 12–14  minutes. Respondents were asked to respond to general demographic questions and then to express their perceptions regarding identity and place using a five-point agreement scale. The place statements were divided into two parts: “current” place—that is, the place(s) associated with the group being surveyed; and the respondent’s “home” place, if different from the “current” place. Respondents were directed to a SurveyMonkey link to complete the questionnaire. Five separate “collectors” based on the virtual-world places described in the study were created to catch responses. The business/government collector, or type of place, was also used to gather responses from more general sources that could not be tied easily to a type of place. For example, Meryl McBride gave a talk to about 30 attendees at a Nonprofit Commons meeting—attendees from a variety of place types and from all over the world—and she invited them to fill out questionnaires, which were then captured by the business/government link. The opening pages of the questionnaire are reproduced in the following scanned images as a way of introducing the reader to how the questionnaire was presented to respondents (Fig. A.1).

Focus Groups People selected for the focus groups were brought together at a specific time and met in a conference room at the in-world interview center. The setting had an “official” look, but otherwise provided an agreeable and non-threatening setting. In most cases, the participants knew each other since they came from the same sim(s).

 Appendices 

303

Fig. A.1  Front materials for questionnaire

As with the key-informant interviews, a script was used by the interviewer to guide the conversation. Respondents were permitted to express themselves in whatever way they wanted, irrespective of the script contents. All conversations were conducted in text-chat that were transcripted. The script is provided below:

Focus Group/Questionnaire: Script Please note that any part of the discussion that follows may or may not be referred to or quoted in the forthcoming book, depending on editorial decisions. Please remember that, although I regard this as a confidential discussion, your comments in chat can be heard, and even preserved, by other people in the room. • Basic demographic information about the key informant. Introductory question: [No real questions here.]

304 Appendices

• Motivations: Introductory questions: –– In the questionnaire, you were asked to indicate why you came into SL in the first place. I know that the list was too restrictive for some people. Any additional comments? Have your motivations changed over time? • Identity: How this person defines his/her SL identity relative to the person’s RL identity? How has this identity evolved? We make use primarily of the Veerapen categories, moving from the most transparent to potentially the most immersed: “avatar-as-object—transparent property of the user and has no existence without the user’s presence”; “avatar-as-prosthesis”—an extension of the user beyond the physical world; “avatar-as-phantom limb”—potentially a sensory extension of the user; and “avatar as equal”—the phenomenal being with a presence of its own, perhaps the most immersed of the various categories. We do not exclude the ideas of Wardle, Evans, Schultze, and others. Introductory questions: –– In the questionnaire, you were asked to describe your relationship with your avatar. How do you think that relationship coincides with the following categories? –– Transparent, property of user, no distinction between RL/SL? –– Sort of a prosthesis or extension of RL user? –– Almost a phantom limb—a sensory extension, can smell the roses? –– A presence of its own, an immersed being that feels separate and apart from the driver (except for driver’s motor skills). –– Has this relationship between you and your avatar changed over time? • Place: It is unrealistic to expect that all the aspects of virtual places, as discussed above, can be examined here, given the scope of this survey. It is possible, however, to report on user feelings and perceptions as

 Appendices 

305

users engage virtual-world places. Specifically, informants will be asked to address the “affective” component of place—particularly in terms of “thick” vs. “thin” places—and how place constitutes a “center of meaning.” Respondents will also be asked to describe how things have changed over time. Informants will be queried about what makes the virtual space a place, in their thinking? Along the same lines, informants will be asked to describe the importance of familiar furnishings, etc., in creating and defining a sense of place. Introductory questions: –– You were selected to participate in this study because of your association with this place (sim, etc.). Do you have special feelings for this place? Do you have another, “home,” place or sim for which you have special feelings? Can you describe these feelings? –– Do you consider this place to be “real”? If so, what makes it real? If not, is your place more of a projection of some sort? –– What role do familiar surroundings (e.g., furnishings, structures, etc.) play? • Future?: Do you think social virtual worlds such as Second Life have a “future”? If so, why? Will they look the same? If not, why not?

Appendix B: Correlation Matrices Identity Matrix Simple correlation coefficients were computed for the questionnaire data related to avatar identity. Identity-related variables are indicated in blue; place variables in orange. The variables include the following (abbreviated for convenience):

a) b) c) d) e) f) g) h) i) j) k) l) m) n) o) p) q) r) s) t) u) v) w) x) y) z) cc) dd) ee) ff) gg) hh) ii)

My current avatar is primarily a tool or a doll. I believe that who you are in RL is who you will be as an avatar. The “look” of my current avatar is an idealized version of myself. When I am in my current avatar, I talk a lot about things in RL. My current avatar is more conscientious, more extraverted, and/or less neurotic than I am. I have become more emotionally attached to my current avatar. When I am in my current avatar, I feel like I am in an external world and that I have a presence that is separate from RL. I feel as if my avatar has a life and/or mind of its own. I think of my current avatar as my true self. When my avatar is talking to other avatars, my avatar (or its user) tries to guess the RL characteristics of the users of other avatars. I see my current avatar as a “character,” like in a novel or movie. When my current avatar is talking face-to-face with another avatar, I tend to act like the way my avatar looks. My current avatar has friends in Second Life who have become friends in RL. When I see my current avatar on the screen, I have a feeling of “that is me” over there. My current avatar friendships are just as close as my friendships are in the actual or physical world. My RL personality and my current avatar’s personality have become less similar over time. Over time, I have increasingly come to care about my current avatar. When my current avatar is in Second Life, I feel that it is part of a culture that is different from the one which I live. Given who I am in RL, I feel that I am “deceiving” people around me in SL when I am in my current avatar. I am willing to share RL information about myself with other avatars who are not friends or acquaintances in SL. I am willing to share RL information about myself with avatars who are my friends or acquaintances in Second Life. I believe that my current avatar has changed me in terms of how I see and/or feel about myself in RL. This sim or place feels like a “home” to me This sim or place has emerged or is emerging as a “center of meaning.” This sim or place is a location to do work. This sim or place is a location to play. I regard this sim or place as a location for artistic and/or intellectual engagement. I regard this sim or place as a location that helps me with personal improvement in RL. This sim or place helps me to learn about my RL self. It is important that this sim (or any sim) has the furnishings, physical structure, and/or trappings that I would expect to find in RL. I have witnessed changes over time in this sim or place. I view this sim or place as mainly the product of imagination. I view this sim or place as “real” as my actual-world places.

306 Appendices

a

0.07

-0.17

-0.15

-0.13

-0.29

0.15

0.16

-0.02

0.08

0.43

0.08

-0.05

-0.30

-0.20

0.14

-0.28

-0.10

-0.07

-0.01

-0.08

-0.40

b

c

d

e

f

g

h

i

j

k

l

m

n

o

p

q

r

s

t

u

v

1.00

a

0.04

0.19

-0.14

-0.01

-0.16

0.03

-0.09

0.15

0.12

0.41

-0.11

-0.31

0.03

0.24

-0.28

-0.24

0.01

-0.05

0.13

0.23

1.00

b

0.21

0.09

-0.03

0.16

-0.04

0.35

-0.06

0.41

0.30

0.14

0.19

0.01

0.12

0.43

0.21

0.12

0.33

0.13

0.27

1.00

c

0.17

0.56

0.37

0.04

0.11

0.22

-0.28

0.27

0.11

0.21

0.06

-0.19

0.24

0.20

-0.15

0.04

0.17

0.16

1.00

d

0.48

0.07

0.15

0.19

0.18

0.14

0.06

0.25

0.26

0.03

0.26

0.02

0.00

0.26

0.13

0.12

0.14

1.00

e

0.34

0.02

-0.01

0.03

0.03

0.48

-0.07

0.20

0.54

0.20

0.09

-0.12

0.07

0.37

0.11

0.30

1.00

f

0.06

-0.11

-0.07

-0.01

-0.04

0.09

0.15

0.16

0.15

-0.11

0.26

0.22

0.05

0.09

0.39

1.00

g

0.13

-0.23

-0.11

0.07

0.09

0.08

0.21

0.12

-0.05

-0.15

0.12

0.32

0.12

0.09

1.00

h

0.29

0.15

0.03

0.01

-0.05

0.29

-0.11

0.48

0.52

0.32

0.09

-0.08

-0.05

1.00

i

0.07

0.17

0.04

0.22

0.15

0.33

0.21

-0.13

-0.10

-0.04

0.03

0.27

1.00

j

-0.12

-0.27

-0.09

0.01

0.28

0.04

0.34

-0.15

-0.18

-0.32

0.29

1.00

k

0.31

-0.02

-0.15

0.01

0.30

0.12

0.09

0.37

0.27

-0.03

1.00

l

0.15

0.21

0.00

-0.19

-0.23

0.23

-0.16

0.49

0.20

1.00

m

0.39

0.17

0.09

-0.09

0.05

0.19

-0.13

0.43

1.00

n

0.39

0.24

-0.12

-0.07

-0.05

0.27

-0.08

1.00

o

0.08

-0.34

-0.17

0.30

-0.05

-0.05

1.00

p

0.38

-0.04

-0.08

0.12

0.31

1.00

q

0.30

0.13

0.11

0.02

1.00

r

0.14

-0.26

-0.13

1.00

s

-0.02

0.48

1.00

t

0.08

1.00

u

1.00

v

 Appendices 

307

Main (Home) Place

Current Place

0.10

0.36

-0.04

0.07

-0.08

-0.03

-0.14

x

y

z

aa

bb

0.16

-0.13

-0.20

-0.14

-0.19

0.10

-0.22

ee

ff

gg

hh

ii

-0.24

-0.14

-0.07

0.04

-0.02

ee

ff

gg

hh

ii

0.26

-0.24

0.01

-0.03

aa

bb

-0.10

0.24

-0.26

z

cc

0.23

0.11

y

dd

0.15

-0.19

x

0.11

0.03

0.12

0.01

0.13

0.18

0.23

0.13

b

0.22

a

-0.06

w

-0.02

0.08

0.28

0.14

0.09

-0.19

cc

dd

0.05

0.14

0.39

0.16

b

0.10

a

-0.15

w

c

0.08

0.11

0.08

0.22

0.24

0.27

0.01

0.10

-0.20

0.16

0.21

0.08

-0.14

c

0.13

0.00

0.10

0.18

0.32

0.29

0.44

0.23

0.12

-0.10

0.48

0.17

0.20

d

-0.04

-0.02

0.01

0.30

0.17

0.17

0.04

0.17

0.17

0.10

0.07

0.12

0.04

d

0.07

0.02

-0.01

0.16

0.23

0.19

0.16

0.03

0.00

-0.03

0.18

0.04

-0.09

0.18

-0.06

0.24

-0.02

0.40

0.31

-0.14

0.08

-0.05

0.01

-0.17

0.16

0.13

e

-0.02

-0.01

0.10

-0.19

0.20

0.16

0.00

0.09

-0.09

-0.07

0.11

0.04

0.03

e

0.31

-0.05

0.23

0.29

0.31

0.29

-0.03

0.36

0.22

0.30

-0.20

0.40

0.21

f

0.21

-0.13

0.16

0.28

0.12

0.18

0.04

0.34

0.18

0.02

-0.03

0.21

0.23

f

0.09

0.20

0.13

0.15

0.08

0.11

0.03

0.11

0.15

-0.02

-0.01

0.12

0.17

g

-0.02

0.00

-0.16

0.06

0.09

0.11

0.02

0.36

0.04

-0.12

-0.12

-0.15

0.04

g

0.12

-0.01

-0.05

0.00

0.07

0.10

-0.11

0.08

-0.10

0.01

0.08

0.09

-0.02

h

-0.07

-0.01

-0.09

0.08

0.11

0.13

-0.01

0.14

0.05

-0.05

0.01

-0.04

0.05

h

0.45

-0.10

0.36

-0.02

0.36

0.39

0.21

0.12

0.07

0.02

0.16

0.25

0.05

i

0.40

0.03

0.30

0.16

0.42

0.31

0.26

0.28

0.26

0.03

0.32

0.40

0.33

i

0.05

0.28

0.20

0.47

0.09

0.17

0.18

0.09

-0.02

0.34

0.03

0.04

0.20

j

-0.02

0.15

0.12

0.11

0.06

0.12

0.30

0.11

-0.17

0.16

0.19

0.05

-0.02

j

-0.10

0.15

0.05

-0.12

0.02

0.04

0.04

-0.10

-0.04

-0.04

0.06

-0.06

0.05

k

-0.25

0.25

-0.11

0.01

0.03

0.09

0.20

0.06

-0.04

0.05

-0.09

0.05

-0.05

k

0.08

0.09

0.37

0.16

0.34

0.22

0.12

0.01

0.06

-0.04

0.14

0.06

0.15

l

0.05

0.11

0.01

0.19

0.17

0.10

0.00

0.21

-0.01

-0.09

-0.12

-0.03

0.07

l

0.45

0.00

0.35

0.09

0.42

0.45

0.32

0.25

0.22

0.31

0.24

0.46

0.40

m

0.24

0.07

0.29

0.08

0.13

0.18

0.26

0.28

0.26

0.21

0.35

0.31

0.37

m

0.42

-0.08

0.41

0.20

0.51

0.47

0.22

0.31

0.26

0.13

0.03

0.38

0.20

n

0.44

-0.12

0.19

0.19

0.28

0.24

0.10

0.24

0.22

-0.08

0.17

0.15

0.21

n

0.47

0.08

0.37

0.00

0.53

0.47

0.27

0.07

0.17

0.27

0.29

0.44

0.22

o

0.38

0.04

0.21

0.15

0.44

0.42

0.20

0.27

0.30

-0.14

0.35

0.33

0.41

o

-0.07

-0.05

-0.07

-0.02

0.03

-0.04

-0.08

0.03

-0.26

0.03

-0.13

-0.17

-0.07

p

-0.12

-0.07

0.00

0.06

0.07

0.13

0.06

0.15

-0.05

0.03

-0.01

-0.09

0.11

p

0.16

0.13

0.19

0.27

0.42

0.33

-0.02

0.34

0.06

0.25

-0.09

0.34

0.30

q

0.25

0.08

0.14

0.28

0.27

0.30

0.16

0.34

0.16

0.08

0.06

0.30

0.20

q

(This correlation matrix is a downward extension of the preceding matrix)

Identity/Place Matrix

r

-0.02

0.14

0.17

0.14

0.30

0.13

-0.08

0.09

0.02

0.09

-0.17

0.23

0.23

r

-0.14

0.22

0.06

0.11

0.04

0.08

-0.17

-0.17

-0.14

0.14

-0.33

-0.05

-0.21

s

-0.22

0.03

-0.15

0.10

-0.05

-0.13

-0.30

-0.05

-0.07

0.00

-0.10

-0.07

-0.31

s

-0.21

-0.12

-0.07

0.06

0.01

-0.02

0.04

0.06

-0.07

-0.13

0.00

-0.12

0.11

t

0.19

-0.36

0.13

0.08

-0.05

-0.02

0.02

-0.10

-0.14

-0.19

0.00

-0.13

-0.18

t

0.26

-0.26

0.13

0.09

0.01

0.03

0.12

-0.30

0.11

0.11

0.07

0.06

-0.31

u

0.25

0.04

0.15

0.21

0.09

0.12

0.10

0.04

0.08

0.20

0.20

0.13

0.16

u

0.18

0.04

0.17

0.07

0.09

0.15

0.05

-0.19

0.07

0.06

0.19

0.15

-0.09

v

0.21

0.03

0.33

0.28

0.61

0.45

0.06

0.53

0.03

0.21

0.03

0.39

0.26

v

0.15

-0.05

0.23

0.26

0.42

0.44

0.01

0.41

0.13

0.11

0.05

0.14

0.33

308 Appendices

 Appendices 

Place Only Matrices Current Place

Current Place

w

z

aa

bb

cc

dd

ee

ff

gg

hh

ii

x

0.54

1.00

y

0.24

0.28

1.00

z

0.25

0.31

-0.05

1.00

aa

0.43

0.46

0.15

0.24

1.00

bb

0.62

0.19

0.08

0.23

0.23

1.00

cc

0.16

0.42

0.48

0.11

0.18

0.11

1.00

dd

0.37

0.31

0.18

0.32

0.45

0.43

0.27

1.00

ee

0.34

0.28

0.18

0.31

0.40

0.46

0.25

0.88

ff

0.26

0.19

-0.17

0.33

0.25

0.22

0.10

0.27

0.21

1.00

gg

0.41

0.46

0.15

0.26

0.25

0.17

0.38

0.26

0.28

0.13

hh

0.18

0.24

-0.03

0.18

-0.14

0.16

0.17

0.15

0.12

0.01

0.14

1.00

ii

0.32

0.44

0.29

0.18

0.52

0.26

0.15

0.23

0.27

0.23

0.20

-0.15

1.00

ee

ff

gg

hh

ii

1.00

1.00

Main (Home) Place w

Main (Home) Place

y

1.00





x

w

x

y

z

aa

bb

cc

dd

w

1.00

x

0.63

1.00

y

0.20

0.23

1.00

z

0.37

0.31

0.12

1.00

aa

0.41

0.53

0.14

0.24

1.00

bb

0.45

0.48

0.00

0.26

0.31

1.00

cc

0.37

0.35

0.44

0.29

0.37

0.08

1.00

dd

0.42

0.56

0.39

0.34

0.24

0.45

0.29

ee

0.49

0.52

0.36

0.32

0.28

0.48

0.37

0.83

1.00

ff

0.17

0.11

0.00

0.35

-0.02

0.44

0.07

0.22

0.26

1.00

gg

0.48

0.57

0.32

0.23

0.34

0.26

0.62

0.57

0.65

0.18

1.00

hh

0.19

0.12

0.18

0.25

0.17

0.07

0.30

0.17

0.20

0.21

0.21

1.00

ii

0.28

0.50

0.27

0.24

0.26

0.27

0.32

0.43

0.41

0.08

0.54

0.05

1.00

1.00

309

Index1

A

Aas, B. G., 148 Active Worlds, 22, 57 Active Worlds Educational Universe, 77 Ada, N., 39 Adams, P. C., 20, 56, 57, 103 Addiction, 187 Affects, 69, 269 Age, 135 Agnew, J. A., 165, 215 Ajayi, N., 248 Albenesius, C., 88 Aldo Stern, 10 Alpha World, 60 Altered embodiment, 158 Amsterdam’s Red Light district, 89 Ana, Prieto, 1 Anderson, B., 220

Anderson, J. Q., 37 Anima, 132 Anima sim, 273 Animus, 132 Antheunis, M. L., 244 Anyetei, S., 248 Application Programming Interfaces (API), 64 Apter, E., 144 Ash, J., 70, 104 “As I appear to the other, so I am,” 163 Assemblages, 74, 221–227 Atlas of Cyberspace, 60 Au, W. J., 34, 85, 194 Augmentation, 149 Augmented realities, 67, 74 Aujla, S., 35 Aurilio, S., 144

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 M. L. Johnson, Social Virtual Worlds and Their Places, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-8626-9

311

312 Index

Authorial intention, 71 Avatar, 22, 177, 180 as autonomous agent, 160 as equal, 152 “just me,” 174 -as-object, 150 as “a phantom limb,” 151 profile, 163 as prosthesis, 151 self-integration, 160 self-segmentation, 160 as their “true selves,” 174 Avatar Orchestra Metaverse, 35–36 Avatarah, 19 B

Bailenson, J. N., 153 Bainbridge, William, 38 Baldwin, K., 195 Bardzell, S., 144 Barker, V. E., 18 Barnes, S. J., 129 Bartle, R., 126 Begley, S., 32 Behm-Morawitz, E., 18 “Being there,” 158 Beith, M., 32, 33 Bell, D., 189 Bell, M. W., 26 Bennetsen, H., 150 Bennett, J., 32, 33 Bergin, R., 8, 15 Big Five personality questionnaire, 168 Biocca, F., 153, 157 Bittarello, M. B., 20 Blackman, C., 185

Blandscapes, 107 Bleize, D. N. M., 244 Blind man’s stick, 158 Bodenhamer, D. J., 108 Boellstorff, T., 5, 141, 144 Bollella, Greg, 250 Book, 26 Bosco, F. J., 14, 16 Boulos, M. N. K., 61 Bowers, K., 35 Brengman, M., 128, 244 Briscoe, J., 30, 90 Brookey, R. A., 195 Burdea, G. C., 23 Burden, D., 61 Business Wire, 88 Business/improvement, 133 Buttimer, A., 214 Byrne, D., 66 C

Cadman, L., 219 Caledon Oxbridge University, 272 Calleja, G., 157 Callipygian Christensen, iv Can an avatar “Grow Up”?, 169–171 Cannon, K. L., 195 Carden, C., 245 Care boundary, 170 Carl Metropolitan, 10 Caryl Meredith, 9 Castells, M., 74n1 Castronova, E., 24, 132, 141 Cat Mistwalker, 9 Cemeteries, 197–198 Center of meaning, 217 Childs, M., 19, 144, 248

 Index 

Christopoulos, D. C., 9 Chudakov, Barry, 37 Chung, Anshe, 88 CITI certification, 296 Cloutier, J., 245 CNET, 82 CNN, 243 Code spaces, 71 Coiffet, P., 23 Collins, Barry, 39 Collins, C., 35 Collinson, A., 56 Commercial/government/public places, 242 Community, 144 Community of Democratic Simulators, 17 Comprehensive social virtual, 75 Concocted spaces, 4, 56, 103–105 Consalvo, M., 144 Container, 30 Context, 165 Continuum, 149 Cooper, A. K., 64 Copresence, 159 Corbett, J., 65 Corcosman Voom, 10 Corsica, 100 Cosgrove, D., 62 Craft, A. J., 194 Crampton, J. W., 64 Crang, M., 74n1 Crary, C. M., 186 Creativity, 134 Cresswell, T., 62, 212 Crowd-sourced, 68 Croxton, J. T., 3 Culture, 188–191

Curiosity, 133 Current avatar, 173 Cyberspace, 58 Cyborg, 156 Cyborgian entanglements, 157 Cyborgian extension, 59 D

Da Boom, 98 Dahlman, C., 212 Damer, B., 20, 60 Daniels, S., 62 Dean, E., 185 Decarnation, 20 Deep maps, 108 Deindividualization, 148 Deindividuation theory, 153 Delia Lake, iv DeMers, M., 35 Denise Infinity, iv, 10 Descriptive approach, 214 Deterritorialization, 239 DeVaus, D. A., 11 Digiplaces, 74 Digital geographies, 72 Digital turn, 72 Digital worlds, 72 Digital you, 19 Dionisio, J. D. N., 21 Disembodiment, 148 Disinhibition, 148 Distributed embodiment, 158 Dodge, M., 56, 58, 60, 104 Donkey Kong, 21 Doppelganger, 83 Dowling, R., 9 Downey, S., 22

313

314 Index

Dramaturgical weakness, 190 Draxtor Depres, 286 Ducheneaut, N., 166 Dungeons and Dragons, 21–22 Duranske, B., 32 “Dynamic Game Worlds,” 30 “Dynamic Social Worlds,” 30 E

Ecological emergence, 70 Education, 135 EduTechWiki, 77 Eisnor, 64 Electoral geographers, 165 Elund, J., 196 Elwood, S., 6, 67 Embassy, 242 Embodied experience of the self, 145 Embodiment, 144 Emergent, 189 Emerson, S., 78 Entropia Universe, 86–88 Eriksson, B., 36 Estates, 93 Evans, P., 18 Evans, S., 144, 248 EVE Online, 30 Everquest, 22, 62 Expanded embodiment, 158 The Eye, 80 F

Facebook, 42 Factor analyses, 128 Falvey, L. D., 189 Fedeli, L., 141, 144

Fenn, J., 40 Fire-breathing dragon, 162 Firestorm, 22 First Planet Company, 88 Fisher, P., 74n1 Flow, 158 Focus groups, 14–18 Following a trend self, 166 Ford, S., 77 Foster, A., 33 Foucault, M., 74n1 Fox, J., 185 Frank, A., 94 Franklin, L. D., 131 Frau Jo Yardley, 9 Frey, D., 25 Functionalist speech, 190 Furries, 87 G

Gadalla, E., 16 Game, 29 Game grammar, 29 Gaming virtual worlds (GVW), 29 Gartner, Inc., 33 Garvey, G. P., 144 Gee, J. P., 29 Gender, 134 Gender-swapping, 195 Gentle Heron, 9 Geographic information systems or science (GIS), 106 Geographies “of ” the digital, 74 Geographies produced “by” the digital, 73 Geographies “through” the digital, 73 “Getting to ‘Me,” 147

 Index 

Ghanbarzadeh, R., 248 Ghapanchi, A. H., 248 Gibson, M., 198 Gibson, W., 56 Gilbert, R., 144 Gilbert, R. L., 18 Girvan, C., 24, 125, 144 Glaser, M., 34 Golz, P., 17, 167, 196 Gong, W., 248 Goodchild, M., 64 GoogleMaps, 65 Gor, 17 Gordon, E., 29 Goreans, 257 Gottschalk, S., 26, 144 Graham, M., 57, 65, 74n1 Grand Cyber Station, 36 Grand Theft Auto, 21 Gregory, S., 42 Griffiths, M. D., 195 Grimes, J., 56 Grimshaw, M., 18n5 Guitton, M. J., 157

315

Haythornthwaite, C. A., 248 Hegemonic masculinity, 196 Henrik Nel, 88 Herman, T., 14, 16 Hernandez, C. S., 185 Hershfield, H. E., 187 Heterogeneous entities, 267 High Fidelity, 97 Hillis, K., 56, 74n1 Hinrichs, R., 20 Hof, R., 36 Hofman-Kohlmeyer, M., 131 Holden, K., 35 Holloway, L., 213 Homburg, C., 8 Home, 217 Home stones, 257 Hubbard, P., 213 Hudson-Smith, A., 64 Huntsinger, L., 56 Hussain, Z., 195 Hybrid spaces, 74 Hype Cycle, 40 Hypergrid, 25 Hypergrid Business, 76, 84

H

Habitat, 22 Haklay, Muki, 65 Harris, H., 169 Harris, T. M., 108 Harrison, P., 220 Harvey, D., 214 Haskell, Eddi, 41 Hassouneh, D., 128, 244 Hastings, Alex, 249n4 Hayes, G., 40 Hayot, E., 62

I

IC, 246 Idealized, 175 Idealized self, 166 Imaginary avatar, 155 Immersion, 133, 149 Immersion/augmentation continuum, 149 Immersive virtual world (IVW), 24 IMVU, 82–83 Individuation, 133

316 Index

Indy 500, 21 Innovation trigger, 40 In real life (IRL), 197 Inside out, 163 Instagram, 42 Integrated avatar/self, 161 Internet gaming disorders, 187 Intraverses, 36 Invirtualization, 20 Invisible avatar, 160 Islands, 93 J

Jacka, L., 248 Jacobson, D., 157 James, L., 80 James, P. E., 213 Janiuk, J., 196 Jennings, N., 35 Jenson, J., 195 Jesuits, 35 Jin, S.-A. A., 144, 148 Johin, Merrill, 7 Johnson, M. L., 34, 43, 187 Joliveau, T., 64 Jones, D., 169 Jones, P. I., 63, 104 Journal of Virtual Studies, 271 JT, 3 Juliana Lethdetter-Decuir, 9 Jung, Carl, 132 Jung, Y., 129 K

Kaiila Mahoney, 9 Kang, H., 129

Kariuki, D., 94 Kate Miranda, vi Kaye, L. K., 186, 248 Kellerman, A., 58 Kelley, Linda, 250 Kelton, A. J., 34 Kemp, J., 35 Kent, A. J., 107 Key-informant interviews, 8 Khatib, K., 18 Kieger, S., 88, 244 The King and I, 44 Kinsley, S., 69, 74n1, 141 Kirkpatrick, D., 29 Kitchin, R. M., 56, 60 Kitely, 94 Kitzinger, J., 15 Kleban, C., 186, 248 Kneale, J., 56 Knutzen, K. B., 248 Koles, B., 130, 144 Korolov, M., 76 Krueger, A., 17 Kuznetcova, I., 144 Kwan, M.-P., 165 L

Lacan, Jacques, 155 LambdaMOO, 22 Land impact, 92 Landscapes, 62 Lang, B., 23 Language, 217 Latter Day Saints, 35 Leahy, M. M., 144, 246 Le Cornu, A., 189 Lee, W., 42

 Index 

Lefebvre, E., 81 Legault, G., 65 Legrand, R., 41 Lena Anthony, 10 Leominster, S., 42 Leszczynski, Agnieszka, 64 Levin, E., 79 Likert scale, 128 Lilley, K., 63 Liminal, 171 Liminality, 171 Linden Research, Inc., 1n2 Linden Street, 90 Linden World, 90 Lived intensity, 270 Livingstone, D., 35 Llewelyn, G., 149 Local Area Network (LAN), 21 Lomanowska, A. M., 157 Longan, M. W., 63, 80 Lord of the Rings Online, 21 Lorimer, H., 219 Lucy, J., 79 Lui, C. S. M., 30, 244 M

Main avatar, 173 Mainland, 93 Malpas, J., 213 Mancosu, M., 165 Map Darwin, 10 Mario, 21 Mark, D. M., 107 Marketwatch, 82 Markus, H., 162 Marshall, M. N., 8 Martey, R. M., 144, 167

317

Martin, G. J., 213 Martindale, J., 83 Martinez, N. M., 171 Maslov’s hierarchy, 79 Massively multiplayers online (MMOs), 24 Massively multiplayers online game (MMOGs), 24 Massively multiplayers online role-playing game (MMORPGs), 24 Massively multiple online worlds (MMOWs), 24 Matviyenko, S., 151 McBride, Meryl, 7 McGuirk, P. M., 10 McLeod, P. L., 18 Meadows, M. S., 19, 151 Media-in-place, 104 Mediated presence, 158 Mediated spatialities, 74 Meerwijk, E. L., 195 Mennecke, B. E., 35 Mercator projection, 98 Merrick, K. E., 130 Merrill, Johin, 7 Meryl, McBride, 7 Mesh, 239 Messinger, P. R., 148 Meta Galaxies, 25 Metaverse, 24 Meta Worlds, 25 Micro-geographies, 76 Microtransactions, 87 Mills, H. L., 167 Mindark, 86 Mirror worlds, 37 Missionary speech, 190

318 Index

Mission-oriented social virtual world, 76 Mitchell, K., 67 Mitra, B., 17, 167, 196 Mixed-methods, 6 Mobilities, 218 Moore, Bob, 36 MOOs, 24 “More than me,” 177 Morrison, S., 33 Motivation, 128 Motivations for entering a virtual world, 126–140 MTV, 81 Muir, R., 165 Müller, M., 239 Multi-user chat kingdom (MUCKs), 24 Multi-user domains (MUDs), 21, 24 Multi-user game (MUGs), 24 Multi-user shared habitats (MUSHs), 21 Multi-user virtual environments (MUVEs), 24 Murphy, S., 185

Newbie, 55 Newitz, A., 36 New Kadath Lighthouse Art Gallery, 111 New Media Consortium (NMC), 34 New World Notes, 286 1920s Berlin, 17 Non-representational theories, 219–221 Notecard, 17 Nowak, K. L., 157 Nurius, P., 162

N

P

Nagy, P., 130, 144 Naked, 17 NASA, 35 National Public Radio, 286 Nazir, M., 30, 244 Neighborhood effect, 165 Neogeography, 64–68 Net localities, 74 Neuromancer, 56 Nevelsteen, K. J. L., 27

Pac-Man, 21 Paddison, R., 165 Palimpsest, 63 Parker, A., 15 Parodic speech, 190 Paul, C., 189 Peachey, A., 19, 144 Peak of inflated expectations, 41 Pearce, C., 12, 81 Peds, 87

O

Odom, W., 144 O’Malley, G., 83 Ondrejka, Cory, 35, 61 O’Neill, P., 10 OOC, 246 OpenSims, 22, 94 Osborne, T., 63, 104 “Other than me,” 180 Overlapping circles, 260–265

 Index 

Personal interaction/re-creation, 133 Phelan Corrimal, 10 Phenomenal body, 152 Phenomenal I, 199 Phenomenological approach, 214 Phoenix, 22 Pickard, A. J., 66 Places for embodiment re-creation, 244–247 Places for improvement and respite, 274 Places for intellectual and artistic engagement, 248–250 Plateau of productivity, 41 Playstation, 21 Pomeroy, R., 35 Pong, 21 Pose balls, 194 Positively affective encounters, 70 Postmemory, 104 Postmodern, 145 Post-traumatic-syndrome-disorder (PTSD), 186 Post-truth world, 107 Pred, A., 218 Presence, 28 Pressey, A. D., 129 Prieto, Ana, 1 Prim, 92 Primarily residential places, 250–251 Principal-components analysis, 127 Prosumer, 28 Proteus Effect, 154 Proteus Paradox, 168 Psychological context, 131 Pulsipher, L. M., 212 Purposive sampling, 11

Q

Quadrant analysis, 149 Qualitative research, 11 Questionnaires, 10 Quests, 96 R

Rainie, L., 37 Rak, J., 144 Rana, S., 64 Rawlinson, L., 33 Ready Player One, 95 Real, 140 Real avatar, 156 Reality, 140–143 Real me, 183 “Real Virtual World,” 26 Red light Center, 89–90 Red Light Network, 89 Regions, 92 Relph, E., 214 Renwick, W. H., 212 Resident, 92 Residual, 189 Reterritorialization, 239 Reuters, 243 Rezzer, 275 Riva, G., 158 Robertson, A., 95 Rockcliffe University Consortium, 271 Roelofs, 60 Role play, 13 Rorschach inkblot, 146 Rosedale, Philip, 32 Rosie Gray, 9 Rothman, J., 154

319

320 Index

Roush, Wade, 36, 61 Rubin, C., 40 Rudolphi-Solero, T., 248 Rumsey, David, 112 Rymaszewski, M., 90 S

Salmon, G., 35 Salter, A., 194 Sansar, 90, 95 Sansara, 98 Satyaprakash, 64 Scabrous speech, 190 Scarborough, J. K., 157 Scattershot speech, 190 Schism, 170 Schroeder, R., 23 Schultz, R., 83 Schultze, U., 144, 246, 248 Schwartz, L., 63 Science Circle, 249 Scott, D. W., 35, 144 Screenhood, 104 Scripted character, 162 Seamon, D., 214 Second Afterlife Cemetery, 197 Second Earth, 61 Second Life, 1 Second Life Time (SLF), 99 Second Life Wiki, 90 Self, 144 Self-enhancement, 166 Self-exploration, 145 Self-perception theory, 153 Self-verification, 166 Serious virtual world, 24 Sevelius, J. M., 195

Sex, 193 Shadow archetype, 132 Shalini, C., 244 Shaw, I. G. R., 69 Shelton, A. K., 128 Shepherd, T., 33 Shields, M., 34 Shields, R., 56 Sim City, 79 The Sims, 21, 78–81 Sims, 92 Simteach.com, 34 Sinespace, 84–85 Sinewave Entertainment, 84 Singh, S., 84 Sivan, Y., 23 Slope of enlightenment, 41 Smith, A., 186 Snapchat, 42 Snodgrass, J. G., 187 Snowballing, 16 Snow Crash, 24, 56 Social constructionist approach, 214 Social presence, 159 Social presence dimension, 161 Social virtual worlds (SVWs), 24, 29 Sociomaterial assemblages, 157 Sokolec, J., 186 Soul archetype, 132 Space Invaders, 21 Spaces-in-media, 103 Specht, D., 103 Spigel, B., 56 Spirit Light Dance Company (SLDC), 18, 274 Srivastava, S. C., 244 Standing out self, 166 Starrs, P. F., 56

 Index 

Static Game Worlds, 30 Static Social Worlds, 30 Stein, J., 38 Stephenson, Neal, 24 Stokes, D., 8, 15 Street Fighter II, 21 Structuration theory, 218 Structure of feeling, 240 Subject, 221 Sudane Erato, 9 Sui, D., 60, 64 Suler, J., 147 Suler, J. R., 144 Summers, N., 95 Sung, Y., 169 Sutor, B., 83 Swan, S. A., 131 Sweden, 36 Symbembodied, 156 Symbiotic embodiment, 156 Symbolic avatar, 155

Therapy/well-being, 134 There.Com, 81–82 Thin maps, 108 3dxchat, 89 Three Elements of Place, 215–216 Thrift, N., 60 Thrift, N. J., 218 ThriXXX, 89 Tier, 92 Time-geography, 218 Titanoboa, 249 Traditional, 145 Transductions, 71 Triberti, S., 144, 161 Tritter, J., 15 Trough of disillusionment, 41 Tuan, Y.-F., 214 Turkle, S., 24, 144 Turner, Frederick Jackson, 58 Twinity, 83–84 Twitter, 42 Twongyirwe, R., 9

T

Takahashi, D., 81, 84 Tank, 21 Taylor, J., 56 Taylor, P. J., 165 Taylor, T. L., 144 Teaching manuals, 43 Technic, 72 Technicity, 72 Technogenetic, 72 Telepresence, 159 Terdiman, D., 84 Terraform, 92 Territorialization, 239 Therapy, 188

321

U

Udell, J., 38 Ultima Online, 22 Uncanny Valley, 97 Understanding of the self, 145 Unwin, D., 74n1 V

Vaishnism, 19 Valibrarian Gregg, 9 van der Meulen, Pieter, 60 Veerapen, M., 144 Veix, J., 39

322 Index

Velleman, J. D., 148 Verhagen, T., 129 View of the self, 145 Vignettes, 5 Vilett, 60 Virtual Ability, Inc., 17, 247 Virtual girl, 197 Virtual me, 161 Virtually real, 142 Virtual-place metaphors, 57 Virtual reality, 23 Virtual-world cognates, 240 Virtual Worldlets, 77 Virtual Worlds Best Practices in Education, 271–272 Virtual World Watch, 35 Vishnu, 19 Voids, 93 Volunteered geographical information, 64 Vonnegut, Kurt, Jr., 141n4 Voyager, D., 93n3

Waterworth, J. A., 158 Weaver, R., 165 Webb, S., 144 Welles, B. F., 18 Wesp, E., 62 What the surveys say, 135–140 White, D., 189 Wikification, 64 Wikipedia, 64 Wild speech, 190 Wilson, M. W., 65 World of Warcraft, 21 Worlds of affect, 69 Worlds of representation, 69 Worlds, Inc., 22 Writer, C., 132 X

Xbox, 21 Y

W

Wagner, G. G., 132, 141 Wallace, M., 32 Wang, F., 35 Warburton, S., 170 Ward, T. B., 29 Wardle, P. F., 141, 155, 246 Warf, B., 56, 64, 69 Waskul, Dennis, 195

Yee, N., 18, 127, 153, 154 Young, J., 35 YouTube, 83 Z

ZenMondo Wormser, 9 Zhang, Y., 186 Zhou, Z., 127 Zook, M., 74n1