‘It’s one thing to embrace it,’ said Ben. ‘Even if I agreed with that, it’s another thing to … you know, we’re officers of the company! This is not something we should be doing.’
‘Absolutely it is!’ said Kevin. ‘If we embrace it, we embrace it. That means we do it. We above everybody else should be doing it.’
‘That’s going a little far,’ said Andrei.
‘All right, at least we shouldn’t not be doing it. If one of us wants to do it, and we can’t, then basically we’re saying this is wrong. And that’s not what we’re saying. What we’re saying is this is part of cyberspace. This is part of what it is to be here. And if one of us wants to participate in that aspect of cyberspace, then we do.’
‘That’s not what we’re saying,’ said Ben. ‘That’s what you are saying.’
‘If we’re really embracing it, we should be transparent about it. Right, Charles? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’
Charles stared.
‘Who appointed him the expert?’ demanded Ben, saving him from the ordeal of answering.
‘Let’s admit this is happening,’ demanded Kevin. ‘Let’s admit it’s part of what a dating site for the mind is, and not deny it. We don’t have to say we encourage it – fine – but we should be prepared to point out that we accept it.’
‘Now you want to publicize it,’ said Ben in disbelief.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. That’s the point, dude.’
‘Whether we can stop it or not, officers of the company shouldn’t do it.’
‘That’s hypocritical,’ retorted Kevin.
Andrei glanced at his watch, a habit he had when he wanted to get away from a conversation and think about something. Ben and Kevin recognized the sign.
‘We need to talk about this again,’ said Ben ominously.
‘Whenever you want,’ replied Kevin, rising to the challenge.
The matter simmered. It was the first issue that had significantly come between the three founders since the inception of Fishbowll. Advertising was something that each of them had known they would have to face at some point, and by the time they had faced it there had been little choice anyway, and none of them had been implacably opposed. But this, with Kevin and Ben entrenched in opposite positions, threatened to cause real damage.
Discussions became increasingly irritable and ill tempered. They were all sitting their end of quarter exams, for which they were spectacularly under-prepared and which they all feared they would fail, which didn’t help their mood. Kevin became increasingly extreme in defence of his pseudonymous activities, elaborating a strong libertarian argument that challenged the imposition of any kind of censure or control on any of the various ways one could represent oneself on the site. Ben felt just as strongly that pseudonymity, while something that couldn’t necessarily be eradicated, ran counter to Fishbowll’s primary objective of providing a place for people to find meaningful connections, and therefore the less of it there was, the better. Andrei listened to the arguments, using them to test his own bias and trying to understand how all of this fitted into his conceptualization of Deep Connectedness, or whether that conceptualization needed to change.
Eventually, Andrei spoke to Ben alone. Talking with him helped Andrei develop his thoughts and he had got into the habit of having long, open-ended conversations with Ben in a way that he never did with Kevin.
‘You know everything Kevin said to you was post-hoc rationalization,’ said Ben. ‘He wants to act out these fantasies and he’s looking for some kind of respectable-sounding argument to justify it.’
Andrei nodded. ‘Maybe.’
‘He shouldn’t be doing this stuff.’
‘That’s a different question,’ said Andrei. ‘His motivation may be personal, but that doesn’t mean his principle isn’t right. Look, my first response was the same as yours. Instinctively, I thought, no, he shouldn’t be doing this. But I’ve been trying to find the fault in his argument. Who are we to say what guise a person can and can’t adopt? You’re the psychologist, Ben. We all use masks, right?’
‘Andrei, come on. This isn’t Psychology 101.’
‘If other people are doing it, why shouldn’t Kevin, just because he’s an officer of the company? So to me, this isn’t about Kevin. It’s a question of whether we should allow it in general. We’ve said from the very beginning that we don’t police the Schools, they police themselves. And, overall, from what you tell me, they’re pretty effective at it. We give them the tools to exclude or moderate and they’re doing that pretty well. And if they don’t want to, that’s their choice. We give them the space, they can build whatever kind of house they want. Right? That’s the principle we agreed on.’ He paused. ‘Kevin’s right. We have to assume there’s lots of people operating under pseudonyms right now. And if that’s the case, then we accept it. Or else, like he said, we fight a battle that we’re never going to win. And, like he said, we probably shouldn’t even be trying to win it.’
‘I’m not saying we can stop it. I’m saying we shouldn’t encourage it.’
‘But let’s pretend we could stop it. Say we could prevent people using pseudonyms. Should we? To me, that’s the question here, Ben.’
‘Andrei, Kevin used the pseudonym to manipulate someone.’
‘Would it make a difference if he did it as Kevin instead of Tonya? Would that make it better? If manipulation is the issue, the pseudonymity is irrelevant. People tell lies all the time online to manipulate people even if they’re not using a pseudonym. Should we try to stop them lying as well?’
‘They’re more likely to lie if they’re using a pseudonym.’
‘How do you know? They may be more likely to tell the truth.’
Ben sighed. ‘Look, this isn’t just a lie. This about who you are.’
Andrei shrugged. ‘A matter of degree.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It comes down to, what are we trying to dictate? Why are we trying to dictate? That was never my intention with Fishbowll. Fishbowll is, “Here’s the functionality to give you Deep Connectedness. Go use it.” That’s enough. That’s our job.’
‘I’m not arguing with that.’
‘Well, in that case,’ said Andrei, ‘surely it’s a matter for people to find their own way to express what they are in this space. Like I say, I reacted like you, but as I’ve thought about it I’ve begun to kind of like it. I kind of like the thought that people can find different ways. If you want to be who you are, sure, go ahead – the majority of people will do that. But if there’s some reason that you can express yourself better and find connectedness better under the guise of someone else, then why not? It’s kind of liberating.’
‘What about the person on the other end of that connection?’
‘That person may be a pseudonym as well.’
‘What if they’re not?’
Andrei shrugged. ‘As long as they’re aware this might be happening … Ben, you think this is a distortion of Deep Connectedness. I did as well. But now I’m thinking, maybe it’s a stronger form of Deep Connectedness, a deeper one. That’s why this is really important. As a matter of principle, I think we need to conceptualize Deep Connectedness broadly, not narrowly. A narrow conceptualization will leave us always where we are, and I don’t think we’ve explored the bounds yet. I don’t think we’ve explored anywhere near the bounds. I kind of feel like … this thing is taking us on a journey. When I launched it last November, did I have any idea that it would look like it looks today? Did I have any idea I was about to flunk my exams because of it? And in another six months … I’ve got no idea what it’s going to look like then. I’ve got no idea where we’re going, Ben. All I can say is there’ll be things that’ll challenge us. There’ll be things that make us uncomfortable. But if we’re going to take this journey, then I believe we have to be open to that. To have a broad conceptualization of Deep Connectedness means that we have to be willing – even wanting – to be challenged b
y new forms for it, and to be willing to accept them. That’s what this thing has really taught me. It’s challenged the narrowness of my conceptualization and dared me to broaden it.’
‘But nothing we do should make the world a worse place.’
‘Absolutely. So let’s ask the question. Does having pseudonymous people on the site make the world a worse place? I don’t think it does.’
‘I do. What if having pseudonymous people makes some people not want to use the site?’
‘What if it makes others more likely to use it?’
‘What if those who don’t want to use it because of pseudonymity outnumber those who do? That would reduce the level of connectedness, wouldn’t it? And that would make the world worse.’
‘That’s an unknown. We can’t quantify that and, anyway, the reverse might be the case. So then the point is, we can’t prevent it – which mean we have to accept it. You’re the one who told me that sometimes we can only do the least worst thing.’
‘But we can at least not encourage it.’
‘I agree with that. I don’t think we should take a position on anything, either for or against, except on the freedom to connect. But let’s look at what that means. We shouldn’t encourage people to use pseudonyms, but we shouldn’t encourage people not to use them, either. It’s their choice. To be consistent, we have to be neutral.’
‘Doesn’t having an officer of the company using pseudonyms encourage it?’
‘No more than having an officer of the company not using a pseudonym. And each of us has an account, right?’
Ben buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. He couldn’t fight the logic. This was Andrei all over: cool, rational, ruthlessly consistent.
Andrei watched him. Between them was the unspoken recognition that Andrei owned a majority of the company, and whatever he decided was the final word.
‘It’s not personal,’ said Andrei. ‘You’re not going to leave over this, right?’
Ben looked up in surprise. He hadn’t even thought of leaving.
‘I need you, Ben. But I need Kevin too. He’s a Stakhanovite. Ben, I’m going to say yes on this. We’ve got to be consistent. But no hard feelings, right? All of us, we argue for what we believe is right. That’s really important. We have to be able to do that and then make a decision and keep going.’
‘What if the decision is one that one of us can’t accept?’
‘I hope it never comes to that.’
There was silence.
‘No hard feelings?’ said Andrei.
‘There’s a little hard feeling.’ Ben shrugged, then forced a smile. ‘I guess it’ll go.’
Ben was a natural listener and conciliator. Whereas Kevin, having been thwarted, would have marched off in a huff, Ben’s instinct was always to find a means of accommodation.
‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘I think if we’re going to have this pseudonymity, we should be transparent about it.’
‘I agree,’ said Andrei.
‘People need to know when they’re seeing a pseudonym.’
‘No. That defeats the purpose. And how would we enforce that? But people do need to know that they might come across pseudonymous people. We have to acknowledge that. Then it’s their choice. If you don’t want to deal with that, don’t come to Fishbowll.’
‘So what are you going to do? Do you want to post a statement in the Grotto?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘I don’t think we should come out and say one of the founders of the company has been posing as a South African shark swimmer.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I’m still thinking about how to do it.’
Andrei took some more time to decide. Kevin continued his life of multiple personalities, although Tonya came to an end – Ian of the Xcel wetsuit and the large packet started pestering her for a video call and suddenly it was all too complicated. Tonya posted a farewell note to the School and quietly disappeared.
A few days later Andrei said, ‘Guys, have a look at the new home page.’
At first they didn’t notice anything. Then they saw a line in small font at the bottom of the screen.
In the Fishbowll, you may encounter avatars, pseudonyms and even real people.
‘What do you think?’ said Andrei.
‘Cool,’ said Kevin.
Ben let out a sigh. ‘Is this live?’
Andrei nodded.
‘We’re going to get a shitstorm in the Grotto.’
‘They won’t even notice it.’
‘They notice everything.’
Outside the Grotto, other people noticed as well.
15
IN JANUARY OF that year, around the time that Kevin and Ben were joining Andrei with shares in Fishbowll and putting the first investment into the business, Chris Hamer set off on a trip into the Australian Outback.
Tall, gangly, with a shock of blond hair, Hamer, then twenty-eight, was already a veteran of three internet start-ups, one of which he and his co-founders had sold for $120 million, netting him a fortune of $18 million. While waiting for his next big idea to hit him, he lived in LA and spent his time as a professional investor funding other internet start-ups.
Hamer was the son of a successful Los Angeles lawyer and had attended the prestigious Harvard-Westlake School, and then Princeton. He had emerged from the experience a curious, widely read, highly intelligent and strangely cynical character. The website from which he had made his money, FriendTracker, was an application that piggybacked on social networks to follow the activities of your friends and give other friends the ability to rank them as being positive or negative for you, using an algorithm to provide an overall score for friendliness or antagonism – or betrayal, as FriendTracker characterized it. It was like National Enquirer come to life. Bust-ups as a result of FriendTracker became common, loudly trumpeted on a FriendSmash! page specifically dedicated to fights and garnering huge publicity. The page was Chris’s invention, as was the idea for the site itself. He thought the whole thing was hilarious and demoralizing in equal measure, confirming him in his jaded view of modern society.
In theory, there was as much potential for FriendTracker to highlight the depth of genuine friendships and the selflessness at the heart of them, but all anyone cared about was conflict and deceit. Duplicitous or jealous friends found ways to use the tool to manipulate their rivals and stab other friends in the back. Chris found even more hilarious and demoralizing the eagerness of advertisers to get on the site, and of a syndicate of Ukrainian investors to take it off his hands when he was getting bored with it.
He couldn’t believe the site had lasted as long as it had. He had thought it was more of a gimmick than a long-staying business and had been proven right by its subsequent decline. Chris felt no guilt about that. The group of investors who had bought FriendTracker thought there was additional value to be had, which meant, in a way, they were trying to screw him. He thought it was overvalued as a result of the publicity over the fights it generated, which meant that he, in the same way, was trying to screw them. Turned out he won and they lost.
The whole thing, in retrospect, was an exercise in cynicism, starting from the idea at the heart of it – exposing the shallowness of apparent friendships – through the hype it engendered, to the ludicrous price he extracted for it.
But while Chris’s cynicism was about the nature of people in modern life, their gullibility and hypocrisy, the things they did, valued and believed in, he wasn’t remotely cynical about the businesses that served – or as he put it more bluntly, exploited – their needs, a number of which he invested in. He was a sharp and insightful observer of the internet space. To Hamer, the cutting edge of the internet was a scything mass of startling and original ideas, many of which would fail, but some of which would survive to shape the world for decades, if not centuries, to come. Constantly in search of intellectual stimulation, he was obsessed by the incessant invention and newness of what he saw, fascinated by its deve
lopment. And by the potential to make truly stomach-churning amounts of money, while having what he considered to be the most fun that it was possible to have. He was always in search of new ideas that would allow him to do that.
The world Chris Hamer inhabited was thus an ever-changing cloud of oddly capitalized cyber names that blew in and then blew away, only rarely sticking. Every week, if not every day, he heard about something that was supposedly the next big thing. Most of those names, he knew, would be forgotten by the time he heard about the next one. But when he did find something that was interesting enough to pursue, when he found that one-in-a-hundred idea that seemed to have a genuine spark of originality and relevance, and when he did hook up with a team of truly capable start-up founders, Chris Hamer had a lot more to offer than mere cash.
Hamer had the priceless experience of having lived through the start-up experience three times over. He had twice seen his creations fail and take significant sums of investors’ cash with them, and he had made every mistake it was possible to make. He knew the pitfalls of rapid growth – the difficulties of scaling up, as it was known in internet circles – that could kill a start-up dead or at least hamper its development to such an extent that a copycat site had the chance to get going and overtake it. He knew the ways and means of venture capitalists and the numerous devices by which they could end up controlling the company you thought you owned and showing you the door. Gregarious, inquisitive, energetic, Hamer had a wide network in the internet world and his network in the venture capital community was equally extensive. He knew just about all the major firms on Sand Hill Road and, more crucially, had the ability to get a meeting with a good number of them. His mix of cynicism and intelligence appealed to the venture-capital crowd, many of whom shared those character traits. Chris himself didn’t have tens of millions to put in, so he tended to get involved with start-ups at an early stage, when a few hundred thousand dollars could make a difference. When the time came for a bigger cash injection, his connections into the VC world were invaluable.
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