In 1983 the BBC put a reporter in front of a man who spent his lunch breaks in a pub he did not drink in. He went for the arcade machine. He beat each new game within 2 or 3 days, and the pub only changed them once a month, so he went home and worked at the keyboard 20 to 40 hours a week, frequently straight through the night.
The programme called these people addicts. Watching it now, the label is the least interesting thing in it, because 1 of the 3 people interviewed accidentally explains the entire mechanism.
His name is Graham Hawker, and he is asked a simple question. What is the actual thrill of playing against a computer.
His answer is the only real piece of psychology in the film. The machine is perfect. It never makes an error. Therefore anything that goes wrong is unambiguously yours, and you are not playing a game at all, you are trying to prove you are as flawless as the thing opposite you.
That is a textbook description of a variable schedule of reinforcement married to a system that never gives you an excuse. Skinner showed decades earlier that unpredictable rewards produce far more persistent behaviour than reliable ones. What Hawker adds is the part Skinner's pigeons could not: an opponent so consistent that blame has nowhere to go except inward. There is no bad referee, no unfair bounce, no bad day. Every loss is evidence about you.
The first man is asked whether he will ever use the program he is spending 6 months of his life writing. His answer starts with 2 words that make the reporter laugh. Asked why he is doing it then, he replies in 6 words, and it is a question, not an answer, and it is the oldest defence there is for doing something useless extremely well.
His wife is sitting there for all of this. She describes lying half awake at 5 in the morning and hearing a sound from the spare room. She reproduces the sound out loud. Then she says a sentence about a room of his own that is far heavier than anything the reporter manages in 8 minutes.
The third person is a woman running a sweet shop, and she produces the turn that makes the film worth the time. The computer collapsed 4 or 5 hours of nightly paperwork into seconds. What she did with the recovered hours is not what anybody expects, and she lays the evidence out on the shop counter for the camera.
By the end of 1982 there were roughly 700 thousand of these machines in British homes, and salesmen were selling them on the grounds that they would help children with schoolwork. The reporter closes on the thing the salesmen were leaving out. 42 years later it is the only prediction in the film that landed.
The first thing you notice about Miami is the sweat. For normal people, for most people, it isn't a gross sweat. It's a natural, sexual sweat. It is as though the sun and air just fucked you to exhaustion and satisfaction.
It isn't like NYC sweat, which is just dirty and tired, gross
@crankyuncle2 She said she's from California and I'm asking if she knows the way to San Jose, because I just don't believe her.
Do you, Karen? Do you know the way to San Jose? Because I really believe someone from California would know that.
That one mutual who is depressed again that one mutual who is thirst trapping again that one mutual who misses their ex again that one mutual who went out to lunch again that one mutual who is off their meds again that one mutual who wants someone anyone again