Hence, this is how we began our love life in the game, much like any of the teenage novels I had devoured in the past.
We spent ample time together, delving into the intricacies of reviewing the books he wished to promote, exchanging feedback, and navigating the complexities of our digital world.
Exiting the virtual realm, it was just one day after the start of this game, I returned to the real world alongside my chatbot just one day later.
Upon my return, hunger pangs reminded me of the stark emptiness awaiting me in my fridge.
With no edible provisions at hand, I resorted to a nutrient capsule containing all the essentials for a human diet.
"That's it, no more of this game," I muttered to myself, feeling a sense of boredom creeping in.
Despite its allure, I knew I had exhausted the novelty of the virtual realm.
Yet, as I reflected on the countless love stories I had immersed myself in online, I couldn't help but acknowledge the predictable nature of their plots.
They all followed a familiar pattern, a determinism that dictated the course of the characters' lives.
Whether the outcome was favorable or not, one thing remained constant: the option to exit the game at any moment.
And with that choice came the inevitable consequence of leaving our characters to their fate, be it a happy ending or an untimely demise.
In the midst of this, a message from my mother, residing in a distant land, arrived bearing the date of the state police exam. Her last words to me echoed in my mind — "Find a real job." In her world, untouched by the advancements of the tech singularity, traditional notions of employment and societal contribution held steadfast.
Attempting to bridge the gap between our realities, I explained the role of digital moderation and its significance in our tech-driven society. Yet, her insistence on pursuing a career in public service persisted, a testament to the enduring values instilled within her from a different time and place.
In her eyes, the need for human oversight and assistance remained paramount, despite the allure of automated systems and the perceived redundancy of certain occupations.
As I pondered the nuances of societal expectations and the evolving nature of work, a message from my neighbor flashed across my screen. He shared his sentiment about the mundane plots of our virtual escapades, though he seemed content with the companionship offered by his chatbot within the game.
"LISA, order some groceries for me," he commanded, prompting his AI companion to spring into action. With a nonchalant response, he dictated his preferences, emphasizing the importance of sticking to a budget. In a matter of moments, the cheapest items available were added to his virtual shopping cart, a stark reminder of the pragmatism that often governed our everyday choices.
Turning my attention back to the computer screen, I was met with yet another message, this time from a user located in Europe. Their request for photos of the moderator's feet was promptly met with a ban, knowing all too well the persistence of such individuals who sought out human interaction in a sea of AI-dominated platforms.
In a world where over 70% of online personas were artificial, the desire for genuine human connection persisted among certain users. Despite the prevalence of AI influencers and virtual avatars, there remained a subset of individuals who sought out real interactions, acknowledging the presence of human moderators behind the digital curtain.
Before retiring for the night, I issued a command to LISA. As I settled into bed, thoughts of our next gaming adventure danced through my mind. Perhaps we can play a thrilling horror or detective game.
In this virtual realm, there were no physical consequences to our actions. We had long since signed the requisite discharge contracts with the gaming platform, granting us the freedom to explore the depths of our imaginations without fear of real-world repercussions. And yet, there remained a lingering sense of unease—a reminder that even in the realm of fantasy, the choices we made carried weight.
I recalled the last time I had chosen to delete my memory of a game—a decision borne out of desperation and regret. My character had been betrayed by those she trusted, her world crumbling around her until she found herself standing on the precipice of a mountain, the echoes of her fractured reality ringing in her ears. Despite my attempts to deviate from the script, the system had insisted on adherence to the predetermined narrative, a stark reminder of the limitations of our digital existence.
The same principles apply to horror or detective themes. We can play solo against NPC or in teams, like me and my chatbote in one team and other humans and their chatbotes in another. Then, the NPCs play their own roles. The pain and other feelings we experience during the game are simulated by the helmet we wear throughout the entire session.
The next day, when it was time to select the game mode, I opted for a thriller theme and a team-based competition. I didn't know what the plot would entail, but as soon as we entered the game, my chatbot and I found ourselves in a secondary school setting, both dressed in school uniforms.