OMI 291: Special Topics in Applied Memetics

Required reading: this Twitter / X thread

Omar sat down at Tim’s desk. “Tim, this conversation never happened. Got it?”

“Not sure what that means,” I lied.

“I’m serious, this conversation is not happening.” Omar signaled with a half-smile to the secretary to step out, and the order was obeyed with a confused expression. He looked razzled.

“I’m probably at least going to write about this,” I said, “but I can agree to not share it with anyone. Unless they ask, that is.”

“Okay, holy shit.” Omar was laughing, but there was no smile. “I hope I don’t have to explain myself more. The Open Research Institute cannot know about this conversation.”

“This conversation,” I said, “which does not exist.”

“We are not talking right now,” he said again, more urgently. “Now. Let us begin talking.”

I stood from the swivel chair, let him take my place behind the desk, then sat across from him, in the same seat that Omar had been sitting in. Was it still warm? Not sure. Maybe the room was just getting hotter.

“Basically,” Omar said, “we’ve been testing a new kind of memetic warfare.”

“Oh, Community Archive?” I sighed with relief. “Yeah, yeah. I know you guys were figuring out how to farm engagement. If you get mainstream adoption, give me a chance to delete my oldest tweets.”

“We’re doing something else entirely,” Omar said, more as a declaration than a correction. “The world is not ready for what we are about to unleash.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“A narrative engine,” Omar said. “An open community literature, about the very people in that literature. Almost like a form of self-narration.”

I could feel my eyes blinking. “Writing fanfiction about ourselves?”

“Dude, think about it. Most people just make up their whole life every time they get asked about it. It’s pretty much normal to do that. It’s the weird ones out who don’t do it.” Omar shrugged. “You wouldn’t happen to…”

“I have a few secrets,” I admitted, “but my wife knows. God always knows, of course.”

“Right,” Defender nodded. “All the information is already there. We just need to harness it. And isn’t telling a story a kind of computation? It is almost like an alignment protocol.”

“So,” I said slowly, “the idea is just to get people to read our stories about ourselves, and have to listen through the process of our thoughts, real or imaginary, as a kind of character drama?”

“There was that one tweet about using ‘quotation marks’ on a message to make it sound like it is from the mouth of the reader,” Omar said. “I don’t have the link, but there was something like that. Anyway, the idea I got from it is that simulating a conversation is also simulating a train of thought. And if someone is simulating a train of thought, you can get them to practically get sucked into your world.”

“What, so you want to hypnotize the reader?” I laughed. “You know how I write. I am more on the abstract side, and dumbing things down with concrete examples often frustrates me when they get a simplified conclusion.”

“I am sure you can do it,” Omar smiled. “Just tell them you are doing it while you are doing it. That makes them more susceptible, not less. In fact, you should tell them that they are more likely to be hyponotized after reading this part of our conversation, because of the placebo effect. Meta, right?”

“I’m getting the creepy crawlies,” I said, shivering. “But sure, I get you. There was this guy from my early poker days who told me I had a tell, and I think him telling me that made it easier for him to find tells on me, til I actually learned the game while he was still mindblown by Thinking Fast, Thinking Slow.”

“Write that down.” He tapped on the desk with his fingers, then stood and offered his hand. “I trust that you understand what I am trying to tell you.”

“This conversation never happened,” I said.

“Shh,” he shushed sharply, then said: “I’m inviting the reader to the Open Research Institute. Make sure that is clear.”

“Sure, whatever.” I turned in my seat and looked at the cameraman sitting in the corner of the room. The lens zoomed in, showing me running a faux conscription advertisement. “Your institute needs you. Join an open timeless literature, and build on the past to jump into the future. Leave your footprint in the dialogue tree. Lead your own private research, from the comfort of your home or Omar’s couch. Come see—”

“Don’t actually let them crash on my couch, though.” Omar did finger guns as he opened the door and saw himself out. “But yeah, you know the rest. Finish that you started.”

“Sure,” I said to the door that had already closed. I looked back into the camera and said: “You know, I never liked ending things. Let’s leave it there.”

For a non-answer to any questions you may have, read ORI 100 .