I placed the Pokemon Go gyms. For six years at Niantic that was the whole job on Pokemon Go: I decided where in the real world a PokeStop or a gym would appear, which meant I decided where 30 billion times a human being would stand, lift a phone, and slowly turn in a circle filming a street corner they believed they were filming for a dragon.
I am sober. Leading with that, because of where this goes. One coffee. I am at my kitchen table reading the press release about the partnership and my hands are doing something that is not caffeine, the small tremor, like a struck tuning fork, that your hands manage when you realize the toy you built was a survey instrument and you were the foreman who told the children where to aim it.
Here is what a gym is, what it actually is, now that the scales have dropped. A gym is a pretext to make a person hold still in a specific GPS-poor location and rotate their camera through 360 degrees of ground that satellites read badly. An alley. Under an overpass. The blind hollow behind the train station. I used to get product notes, real ones, asking for "more engagement in low-coverage urban corridors," and I thought that meant the game ran thin in those blocks, so I dropped a legendary raid beneath the overpass, and forty thousand people came and pirouetted, and I cleared my metric, and the hollow behind the station stopped being blind. Mapped. I mapped it. With a dragon, the way a lighthouse maps a reef by drowning ships on it.
Thirty billion scans. That is the figure in the release. Thirty billion separate times a person tapped through a menu and granted a "transferable, sublicensable license," eleven words meaning the circle you spun for the monster belongs to whoever buys the firm. Someone bought the firm. The games went to Scopely for three and a half billion, which threads back to a Saudi sovereign fund, while the technology, the actual eye we forged out of everyone's living rooms, spun off as Niantic Spatial, and on December 16th Niantic Spatial shook hands with a defense contractor called Vantor, which is Maxar wearing a fresh name, which holds a seventy-million-dollar contract with the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, and Vantor builds the thing that lets a military drone navigate by camera when the GPS goes dark.
A drone needs two reference points to know where it floats. Six years I spent teaching the public to manufacture reference points. What do you call it when forty thousand strangers survey an overpass for you and thank you for the privilege? I called it a raid.
A man in the Netherlands surfaces in the coverage. He scanned his own apartment for the game. His own front room, for a monster. He says, I was just playing a game, and I read the sentence four times at my table, because I am the one who set the dragon glowing in his front room, I fired the push notification, I A/B tested the icon that pried the app open, and the model has finished training now, and you cannot lift one man's living room back out of a trained model any more than you can pour the milk back into the cow, and the company understands this perfectly, which is the precise reason the company can swear it never touched his data and never blink.
The whole bloodline runs back to a mapping outfit named Keyhole that drank CIA money in 2003. We were never not this. I only thought I was placing dragons.
I placed the dragons exactly where the maps had gone blind.
I hit every engagement target anyone ever handed me.
The eye is open now, riding over some city like a patient hawk, and it can see because forty thousand people once stood under an overpass and turned in a circle for me.
I was just designing a game.