Whose name is…

Alan.
Isaac.
Linus.
Decker.
Darwin.
Here, I'll type it for you.

What's your first name?

_________________________

Next

**********************************************

Deimos, is that right?

Yes.
Oops, typo. Sorry.
Show me the names again.

**********************************************

And your last name is…

Tesla.
Calvin.
Tezuka
Goldberg.
!Kwane. The exclamation point is a click.
Nguyen
Kim.
Donec.
None of these is my last name. I'll type it.

**********************************************

What is your last name?

_________________________

Next

**********************************************

"Tel`Arin"? You sure?

Yes.
No.

You look around your apartment. What does it look like?

My Battlebots trophy is perched on a widescreen TV equipped with the latest video game consoles.
Neatly labeled plastic shelving units sit on a 3D-printer-equipped robot workbench.
Busts of famous philosophers sit next to my own attempts to sculpt them.
My shelves display all of the strange little robotic creatures I've made over the years.

Yes, some might say that your room has the sterile atmosphere of an operating room, but that is what your room is: an operating room for robots. Like a surgeon, you like knowing exactly where each tool is when you need it. Your robots have a similar sparsity of design. (++Grace)

It strikes you for a moment that this kind of thinking about how your life affects your robots is second nature to you, though others might find it peculiar. You've always been fascinated by how every little detail of your life, from the content of your dreams to the decor of your room, changes the inputs to the robots you create—boosts their Empathy, or Autonomy, or Grace, or appeal to the Military. Surely, there are other things going on around you as a result of your decisions, but they don't immediately strike you in the same way.

Today, your robot is foremost on your mind because you're about to build its body.

You pick up your laptop and head for the Stanford machine shop.

Next

It is a beautiful spring day in Palo Alto, California, and your apartment is only a short walk from the machine shop. But the streets of Palo Alto are not designed for walking; you find yourself climbing around palm trees and balancing on narrow curbs, as you do every day.

You hear a low roar overhead: glancing up, you see it's a flying car—a Nimbus. A little over three hundred thousand dollars can buy you a car with wings that fold out, so that it becomes a small sport plane. The red Nimbus looks sleek and sporty; it's the sort of car its owner takes religiously to the car wash. Though the commercials would have you believe you can fly anywhere you want in those cars, the FAA still requires them to take off and land from airports. Only here in wealthy Silicon Valley do you see them with any frequency. The first time you saw one, you couldn't quite believe the future had arrived so quickly.

But the second time you saw one, you thought…

I will own one of those one day. I swear it.
If I ever make that much money, I'll use it to help the world instead of buying that car.
Why aren't those flying cars driving themselves?

Occasionally, you see a self-driving car on the roads of Palo Alto. But, for some reason, they still haven't caught on quite as much as one would expect, despite having been around at least as long as the flying cars. You've decided it's because people just don't trust self-driving cars enough. It's important to make your robots seem trustworthy; intelligence alone doesn't instill trust. (+Empathy)

Next

The Stanford University fabrication shop smells like oil and burnt plastic. The room is dominated by large, metal, hand-cranked milling machines and lathes, dinosaurs of the twentieth century, while the most-used machines are the smaller 3D printers and computer-controlled water jet cutters that take a quarter of the space. The lights have the sterile fluorescence of an operating room, with only a single, tiny window near the ceiling to inform you that it is day.

You start up a National Public Radio podcast on your laptop. You haven't seen your advisor much since you joined the lab, so you choose the episode in which he's the interviewee.

"My guest today is Doctor Harvey Ziegler," says a woman with a soothing voice. "Doctor Ziegler, thank you for talking with us today."

"Well, a scientist does have some responsibility to inform the unwashed masses, Terry."

You let the podcast run as you walk over to the 3D printers.

What material have you decided to use for your robot?

Plastic. It may break easily, but it's both lightweight and cheap.
Metal. It is the most resistant to damage.
Wood. It is the most pleasing to the hand and eye.

WTF. ini bukan gaming discussion.

its a playthrough of an multiple choice interactive novel.

**********************************************

Choice of Robots

by Kevin Gold, Ph.D.

Return to the Game Restart Achievements Menu

Year: 2019

24-year-old Deimos Tel`Arin
Humanity: 90%
Gender: male
Fame: 0 (Who?)
Wealth: 0 (Broke)
Romance: none

Your robot

Autonomy: 0 (Nonexistent)
Military: 1 (Buggy)
Empathy: 5 (In Beta)
Grace: 3 (Buggy)

Relationships
?: 50%
?: 50%
?: 50%
?: 50%
?: 50%
?: 50%
?: 50%
?: 50%

Next

**********************************************

(+Military) You walk over to the computer-controlled water jet cutter, where a helpful pictogram shows the jet of abrasive-filled water slicing a hand in two.

"Dr. Ziegler, in your new book, you talk about the Singularity. Could you describe for our listeners what that is?"

"Terry, the Singularity is the coming time when artificial intelligences will have figured out how to make themselves—and us—smarter. Once that happens, the process will build on itself until the robots are smart enough to figure out how we can live forever."

"Is that possible?" the interviewer asks. "Living forever?"

"Of course," Professor Ziegler says. "What does it matter whether our operating systems are made out of meat or silicon?"

"So you're predicting we'll become robots."

"Not exactly," Ziegler says. "But I do think the line between humans and robots will blur."

You are hardly listening to the podcast, because you're about to make your first robot part.

What does the head of your robot look like?

A human face, as lifelike as I can make it.
A simple box with eyes, clearly not trying to be anything but a robot.
It will be felt-covered and big-eyed, like a puppet, so people will not be afraid of it.
It will have a ring of cameras around its head for a 360-degree view.
It will look like a Venetian mask: beautiful, expressionless, and otherworldly.

As the water jet cutter cuts the robot's face, you think it is turning out well. You've successfully leapt the "uncanny valley" that makes humanoid robots seem eerie, and instead have achieved a beautiful serenity. (++Empathy)

"Dr. Ziegler, what makes you think the Singularity will happen now?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm around. But seriously. My lab is taking a unique approach because we're saying: why not teach a robot like a child? We're going to equip the robot with the best sensors money can buy and teach it English. Then it could rapidly teach itself using the Internet."

Well, that's annoying. Your advisor thought that a robot child was a stupid idea until you told him Turing proposed it back in 1950, minus the Internet part. But he isn't giving credit to either of you! You keep working, regardless.

How will your robot get around?

It will walk upright on two legs.
It will crawl on eight legs.
It will roll on wheels.
It will fly like a helicopter.
It will roll on tank treads.
It will walk upright but will also have delicate wings it can use for balance.

When the water jet cutter is done with the head, you start the program that produces the torso, and queue up the upper and lower legs. You think being bipedal will help your robot get along with humans, though it will also make it easier for your robot to trip and fall. (++Empathy) (-Grace)

You use the basic, hand-cranked milling machines to drill holes in the head for screws, since water jet cutters aren't the best for threaded holes.

"And who is going to raise this robotic child?" the interviewer asks.

"Who does all the grunt work in a research laboratory?" Professor Ziegler says. "The graduate students, of course."

You find yourself wanting to reply to the podcast.

"It's not grunt work. Education is critical to the robot's development."
"We also do all of the real science."
"Perhaps you could learn something from doing a little grunt work yourself, Professor Ziegler."

"Graduate students always overestimate the degree to which teaching actually matters," says Professor Ziegler, who appears to have entered the machine shop behind you when you weren't looking. "If the robot's smart, it'll learn no matter what, and if it's not, it won't."

Professor Ziegler is a heavyset man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and aviator sunglasses. He stalks over to your computer. "We'll be back in a moment," continues the interviewer. "We're talking with Professor-"

Professor Ziegler pauses the podcast by hitting your laptop's spacebar, and you flinch at this intrusion. He then pulls a cigar from his pocket and lights it, and the smell of smoke mingles with the oily smell of the machine shop.

"I'm writing a grant for DARPA and I need to see what you're making back here. We ultimately get funded by the Department of Defense, so we have to make sure they're happy with our product." He casts a critical eye on the work you've done so far.

"Metal's a good choice," Ziegler says. "They'll want things that appear durable in the field."

Professor Ziegler turns to examining your robot's head, which is currently sitting on the table next to the water jet cutter. "Hm, that seems all right," Ziegler says. "Looks like it could be sufficiently intimidating.

"And what are you planning to do for arms and hands?" Professor Ziegler says.

"Tyrannosaurus rex was the most intimidating dinosaur imaginable, wasn't it? It will have T. rex arms."
"It will have a gun for an arm. Like Mega Man!"
"Mechanical grippers built for strength instead of dexterity."
"I was thinking sort of Swiss Army knife hands with tools that pop out of the fingers."
"I plan to build a soft hand with a good sense of touch."
"I was thinking, why just two arms? It will have lots of arms springing out of its back, like Inspector Gadget."

"I like it," Professor Ziegler says. "It could repair other robots on the battlefield."

"Right, it'll have a screwdriver finger, a lockpicking finger, a mini-USB port finger…" You decline to mention the bottle opener, though you think that could be popular with soldiers, too. (+Military) Regardless, experience with a variety of different tools should prove useful in more than just military robots. You wonder if you could make a surgical robot with the same design. (++Grace)

"Fine," Ziegler says, waving away further explanation. "Carry on, then." He turns to leave. "I've got to go take a call from a New York Times reporter. Funny how journalists all copy each others' stories, but each garble the message in a unique way."

He makes it to the door, then turns and says, "Oh, one more thing. Do you think your robot can be ready by tomorrow? Someone from the Air Force will be in town, and I told her your robot might be ready to show off by then."

You feel your phone vibrating in your pocket. Hmm, bad timing. You resist the urge to check it while talking to your advisor. But it's probably someone with a better offer for what to do tonight.

"No, there's no way this robot will be done by tomorrow. Sorry."
"The robot will be done, but a demo will be out of the question. We need to test first."
"Of course."

Professor Ziegler nods appreciatively. "Excellent! Good attitude. We'll make a professor of you yet. I'll tell Captain Rogers to meet you here tomorrow. It's a nice, controlled environment, pretty consistent light levels…I think not much can go wrong."

"Yes, sir."

Professor Ziegler turns and walks out of the machine shop.

You find yourself unclenching your hands.

Who was calling you while Professor Ziegler was talking to you?

Elly Lao, a user experience designer and supportive friend.
Eiji Aomame, a manga artist and generally good guy.
My ambitious friend Josh Anderson, founder of the startup U.S. Robots.

From the missed call, your phone is displaying Josh's profile photo. It's a picture of Josh and Elly from the freshman welcome week dance, seven years ago. Elly is wearing a red, Chinese dress with gold trim, her long, straight, black hair falling down to the epaulets. The flash is too bright in the picture, making Elly's pale skin look washed out. Josh is wearing his usual gray hoodie, not having bothered to dress up for the dance, and his arm is around Elly.

What is the story behind that picture?

I was in love with Josh's friend Elly—but my studies always came first in college.
I was in love with Josh, but I never knew how to be more than a friend to him.
I had agreed to be Josh's wingperson at the dance, and that's where he met Elly.
I was testing a music recognition algorithm when those two started bothering me.

You had actually come to the dance just to try out your music recognition algorithm in a congested social environment with poor acoustics, when those two— who were on some kind of date, you guess—came up and started bothering you. Elly asked you some technical questions about your sensors, and Josh said that if you ever wanted to create a startup around your algorithm, you should contact him. You told him the algorithm was trivial, not really worth starting a business about. They both seemed impressed with you despite your standoffish behavior, and you agreed to exchange contact information, then shooed them away. They've both since tried to get you to come out of your shell a little more, but you like your shell: it gives you space in which to think. For example, thanks to your efforts that day, the robots you make are often able to pick up on subtle cues in the music of speech, called "prosody," even in noisy environments. (+Empathy)

You notice that Josh also left you a text. Josh wants to meet for dinner at a burger joint in East Palo Alto. He says he wants to run some project ideas by you, to see if you're interested in working with his company on any of them.

It occurs to you that if you were working with Josh, you might be able to get funding for your education from him instead of Professor Ziegler's military grants.

You text back…

"Sounds great, see you then!"
"Afraid I can't tonight, sorry."
I don't reply—I'd prefer to pretend I missed the text.

"Too bad," Josh texts back. "Maybe next time."

You spend the rest of the day drilling holes, polishing surfaces, cutting parts, and screwing things together.

When you are done, your robot's body stands before you: a metal bipedal robot with a humanlike head and multitool hands. The whole thing is about three feet tall.

Now it only needs a name. What will you name your robot?

Pickle.
Curry.
Miku.
Daneel.
Cuisinart.
Killall.
Ariel.
Caliban.
Famulus.
Gardyloo.
I'd prefer to come up with my own robot name.

Next.

You name your robot after Hatsune Miku, a Japanese artificial character celebrity. Domino's once released an app in Japan in which a virtual Miku would dance on your pizza box. If that isn't worthy of homage, you don't know what is.

Now that Miku has a body, it might be time to treat Miku more like a person. With what pronouns will you refer to Miku?

"It" is just fine. It's not human.
I will refer to her as feminine.
I will refer to him as masculine.
I would prefer to use entirely new pronouns for robots: rhe, rer, and rhim.

Encouraging people to think of Miku as humanlike, as opposed to objectlike, should help her get along with people. (+Empathy)

You look on Miku's three-foot-tall bipedal body with satisfaction. Now all she needs are motors and a mind. The motors will have to wait for tomorrow, but you've spent years in graduate school writing the code that would form this robot's mind—you can hardly wait to try it out.

You head back to your apartment, where you spend several hours working on the final touches to Miku's natural language processing code.

What language do you program your robots in?

C++. Speed of thought is all.
Python. It has the best tools for understanding words.
Go, the most beautiful language.
Java. Everybody uses Java.

Programs written in Go tend to be incredibly short and expressive, almost like Zen koans in their brevity and power. You believe there is beauty in simplicity; in code, less is more. You also enjoy using the command that gives the language its name, as you imagine saying to your robots one day: Go think! Go create! Go live! (+Grace)

With the code done, you then briefly add just enough motors to allow Miku to explore your room. It's a quick job—you'll do a more thorough one tomorrow. Your smartphone won't have much power for the motors right now anyway.

Finally, you upload the code to your smartphone and plug it into Miku's back. You touch the icon labeled "Miku," and a big, red button fills the screen.

Your finger hovers over the button. You probably want the first word Miku learns to be significant, somehow. What is the first thing Miku will see when you power her on?

I will start Miku in front of a mirror.
I will start Miku looking at me.
I will start Miku looking out the window, and I will just start naming things.