Four years ago, readers of this blog were treated to the following news flash:

The University of Phoenix, having pioneered web-based learning and built one of the largest “virtual campuses” in Second Life, is now looking to become the dominant higher-education institution on Twitter. The biggest for-profit university in the world, UoP will roll out this fall a curriculum of courses delivered almost entirely through the microblogging service, according to an article in the new issue of Rolling Stone (not yet posted online). The first set of courses will be in the school’s Business and Management, Technology, and Human Services programs and will allow students to earn “certificates.” But the school plans to rapidly expand the slate of Twitter courses, according to dean of faculty Robert Stanton, and will within three years “offer full degree programs across all our disciplines.” Stanton tells Rolling Stone that Twitter, as a “near-universal, bidirectional communication system,” offers a “powerful pedagogical platform ideally suited to the mobile, fast-paced lives of many of our students.”

I posted that on April Fools Day, and of course none of it was true. It was a joke, and a pretty silly one at that, though the U of P folks did feel compelled to issue a formal denial: “University of Phoenix is not going to deliver courses via Twitter. With the limited characters you can post on Twitter, this wouldn’t be a feasible platform for a robust and quality academic curriculum.” No, there would be no MOOTCs — massive open online Twitter courses. (It’s pronounced “moot-sea,” in case you’re wondering.)

But what begins as farce sometimes ends as tragedy. A new study, titled “Major Memory for Microblogs” and published in this month’s edition of Memory & Cognition, reports on the results of experiments that show that the “trivial ephemera” that people share through Twitter and Facebook are actually much more memorable than, say, “sentences from books.” We have a “remarkable memory for microblogs,” the research indicates, because brief “status updates” are closer to “the largely spontaneous and natural emanations of the human mind” than are the more complex and carefully composed sentences found in literature. Because they resemble snippets of conversation, tweets and such-like seem to be “mind-ready formats.”

One of the researchers, Christine Harris of the University of California at San Diego, explains: “Our findings might not seem so surprising when one considers how important both memory and the social world have been for survival over humans’ ancestral history. We learn about rewards and threats from others. So it makes sense that our minds would be tuned to be particularly attentive to the activities and thoughts of people and to remember the information conveyed by them.”

Another of the researchers, Nicholas Christenfeld, also of UC-SD, draws a larger conclusion. Pointing out that our minds did not “evolve to process carefully edited and polished text” (cavemen’s tastes ran more to The Daily Grunt than The New Yorker), he says, “One could view the past five thousand years of painstaking, careful writing as the anomaly. Modern technologies allow written language to return more closely to the casual, personal style of pre-literate communication. And this is the style that resonates, and is remembered.”

Now, one might see in all of this a very good reason to celebrate the development of “painstaking, careful writing.” After all, it allowed us to escape our minds’ evolutionary bias for the simple social grunt and helped us to expand our capacity for expressing and comprehending more subtle, more eloquent, more complicated thoughts. Did we have to work harder, cognitively speaking, to understand and remember those more complex thoughts? Of course we did. I mean: duh.

The lesson might be: Let’s place an even bigger stress on “sentences from books,” particularly in education, in order to ensure that, in an age characterized by the mass consumption of updates, tweets, and snippets, we maintain our capacity for more sophisticated thinking, writing, reading, and, yes, remembering. Surely, we wouldn’t want to throw out five thousand years of cognitive gains — however “anomalous” they may be — and allow ourselves to drift back to “pre-literate communication.” But that’s not the conclusion the scholars come to. A third member of the research team, Laura Mickes, from the University of Warwick, says, “Writing that is easy and quick to generate is also easy to remember – the more casual and unedited, the more ‘mind-ready’ it is. Knowing this could help in the design of better educational tools.”

Better?

Although the researchers raise the specter of “textbooks written as tweets,” Mickes isn’t ready to go that far. “Of course,” she says, “we’re not suggesting textbooks written entirely in tweets, nor should editors be rendered useless.” That’s reassuring. If technological progress leads to intellectual or cultural regress, it’s not progress.

Joshua Lewis has run the numbers on letters, and he’s discovered that Scrabble’s point system is statistically suspect. Indeed, he suggests, it may be downright suboptimal. Lewis, a scientist and entrepreneur, developed a software program, called Valett, for “determining the appropriate letter valuations in word games.” The program’s algorithm “analyzes the corpus of a game’s legal plays and provides point values for the letters in the game based on a desired weighting of their frequency, frequency by length and the entropy of their transition probabilities.” He ran Scrabble’s tile values through the algorithm and discovered all sorts of anomalies, which he attributes to historical changes in the set of words that can be played legally in the game.

The big problem seems to be that Q, which Lewis terms an “outlier” (I can attest, anecdotally, to the truth of that description), is substantially undervalued. To bring the game up to statistical snuff, the values of many other letters would, as a result, need to be “compressed.” As the BBC explains:

According to Lewis’s system, X (worth eight points in the current game) is worth only five points and Z (worth 10 points now) is worth six points. Other letter values change too, but less radically. For example, U (one point currently) is worth two in the new version, G (two points) becomes three and M (three points) becomes two.

But Lewis’s plan is founded on a misunderstanding. By accounting for recent changes in word frequency and transition probability entropy, he seems to believe that he can return the Scrabble scoring system to a statistically pristine state. But that pristine state, that Eden where all the numbers line up, never existed. The points system was a kludge from the get-go, as the analytically minded have long known. The game’s inventor, Alfred Butts, “calculated a value for each tile by measuring how frequently each letter appeared on the front page of the New York Times.” Explains John Chew, of the North American Scrabble Players Association, “Butts had a selection bias in favour of printed newspaper English which many people have suggested ought to be rectified.” But changing the system at this point, Chew says, with considerable understatement, would inspire “catastrophic outrage.”

It would also make the game less fun, because it would make it more difficult for novices to occasionally beat veteran players. The scoring system’s lack of statistical rigor, it turns out, has the unintended but entirely welcome effect of adding a little extra dash of luck to the game, as Lewis himself points out. The apparent weakness is a hidden strength.

Let the statistically impure thoughts of Alfred Butts serve as a lesson to us all about the dangers of our current fixation on the analysis of large data sets. Armed with a fast computer, a wonky algorithm, and whole lot of Big Data, a geek will begin to see problems everywhere in our messy human world. And by correcting every statistical anomaly or inefficiency, he’ll not only clean up the messiness, he’ll remove the fun. To a statistician, a blank tile has no value. The rest of us know better.

Photo by openfly.

That’s an artist’s rendering of what promises to be the first bookless public library in the country. Slated to open later this year in Bexar County in Texas, it’s the brainchild of a county judge and book collector named Nelson Wolff, who says he had a vision of an all-digital library while reading Walter Isaacson’s biography of Steve Jobs. The building is being designed to resemble an Apple Store, aseptic and brightly lit, with long ranks of iMacs and an info-barista manning the reference desk-cum-genius bar. The patrons, as the artist’s rendering indicates, will be wraiths.

When we talk about “searching” these days, we’re almost always talking about using Google to find something online. That’s quite a twist for a word that has long carried existential connotations, that has been bound up in our sense of what it means to be conscious and alive. We don’t just search for car keys or missing socks. We search for truth and meaning, for love, for transcendence, for peace, for ourselves. To be human is to be a searcher.

In its highest form, a search has no well-defined object. It’s open-ended, an act of exploration that takes us out into the world, beyond the self, in order to know the world, and the self, more fully. T. S. Eliot expressed this sense of searching in his famously eloquent lines from “Little Gidding”:

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Google searches have always been more cut and dried, keyed as they are to particular words or phrases. But in its original conception, the Google search engine did transport us into a messy and confusing world—the world of the web—with the intent of helping us make some sense of it. It pushed us outward, away from ourselves. It was a means of exploration. That’s much less the case now. Google’s conception of searching has changed markedly since those early days, and that means our own idea of what it means to search is changing as well.

Google’s goal is no longer to read the web. It’s to read us. Ray Kurzweil, the inventor and AI speculator, recently joined the company as its director of research. His general focus will be on machine learning and natural language processing. But his particular concern, as he said in a recent interview, will entail reconfiguring the company’s search engine to focus not outwardly on the world but inwardly on the user:

“I envision some years from now that the majority of search queries will be answered without you actually asking. It’ll just know this is something that you’re going to want to see.” While it may take some years to develop this technology, Kurzweil added that he personally thinks it will be embedded into what Google offers currently, rather than as a stand-alone product necessarily.

This has actually been Google’s great aspiration for a while now. We’ve already begun to see its consequences in the customized search results the company serves up by tracking and analyzing our behavior. But such “personalization” is only the start. Back in 2006, Eric Schmidt, then the company’s CEO, said that Google’s “ultimate product” would be a service that would “tell me what I should be typing.” It would give you an answer before you asked a question, obviating the need for searching entirely. This service is beginning to take shape, at least embryonically, in the form of Google Now, which delivers useful information, through your smartphone, before you ask for it. Kurzweil’s brief is to accelerate the development of personalized, preemptive information delivery: search without searching.

In its new design, Google’s search engine doesn’t push us outward; it turns us inward. It gives us information that fits the behavior and needs and biases we have displayed in the past, as meticulously interpreted by Google’s algorithms. Because it reinforces the existing state of the self rather than challenging it, it subverts the act of searching. We find out little about anything, least of all ourselves, through self-absorption.

A few more lines of poetry seem in order. These are from the start of Robert Frost’s poem “The Most of It”:

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.

I’m far from understanding the mysteries of this poem. As with all of Frost’s greatest lyrics, there is no bottom to it. To read it is to be humbled. But one thing it’s about is the attitude we take toward the world. To be turned inward, to listen to speech that is only a copy, or reflection, of our own speech, is to keep the universe alone. To free ourselves from that prison — the prison we now call personalization — we need to voyage outward to discover “counter-love,” to hear “original response.” As Frost understood, a true search is as dangerous as it is essential. It’s about breaking the shackles of the self, not tightening them.

There was a time, back when Larry Page and Sergey Brin were young and naive and idealistic, that Google spoke to us with the voice of original response. Now, what Google seeks to give us is copy speech, our own voice returned to us.

UPDATE: A version of this post aired as a commentary on the January 15 edition of public radio’s Marketplace program.

Photo from John Ford’s “The Searchers.”

That’s the terrific cover of a new edition of George Orwell’s 1984. It’s part of a series of new Orwell cover designs by David Pearson.

Via Dread.

When the technocracy feels compelled to deliver urgent care on a grandiose scale, the outcome is pretty much foreordained:

The conversion to electronic health records has failed so far to produce the hoped-for savings in health care costs and has had mixed results, at best, in improving efficiency and patient care, according to a new analysis by the influential RAND Corporation.

Optimistic predictions by RAND in 2005 helped drive explosive growth in the electronic records industry and encouraged the federal government to give billions of dollars in financial incentives to hospitals and doctors that put the systems in place. …

RAND’s 2005 report was paid for by a group of companies, including General Electric and Cerner Corporation, that have profited by developing and selling electronic records systems to hospitals and physician practices. Cerner’s revenue has nearly tripled since the report was released, to a projected $3 billion in 2013, from $1 billion in 2005.

I believe that’s what’s called a money-extraction surgery. Sounds like it was a great success.

Next patient: education.

This 40s-era Encyclopaedia Britannica film, unearthed by the Atlantic‘s Kasia Cieplak-Mayr von Baldegg (great name for Google; not so hot for Twitter), provides a nice coda to some of the recent posts and discussions here at Rough Type — the ones about media, the ones about labor, and the ones about the disembodiment of property.