rhizomee

[rhizomee]

From Broken Search to Suicidal Vacuum Cleaners

I recently came across some dystopian news: Google had deliberately degraded the quality of its browser’s search function, making it harder for users to find information — so they’d spend more time searching, and thus be shown more ads. The mastermind behind this brilliant decision was Prabhakar Raghavan, head of the advertising division. Faced with disappointing search volume statistics, he made two bold moves: make ads less distinguishable from regular results, and disable the search engine’s spam filters entirely.

The result? It worked. Ad revenue went up again, as did the number of queries. Yes, users were taking longer to find what they needed, and the browser essentially got worse at its main job — but apparently that wasn’t enough to push many users to competitors. Researchers had been noticing strange algorithm behavior for some time, but it seems most people didn’t care.

And so, after reading this slice of corporate cyberpunk — after which one is tempted to ask, “Is this the cyberpunk we deserve?” — I began to wonder: what other innovative ideas might have come to the brilliant minds of tech executives and startup visionaries? Friends, I present to you a list of promising and groundbreaking business solutions for boosting profits and key metrics:

Neuralink, the brain-implant company, quietly triggered certain neurons in users’ brains to create sudden cravings for sweets. Neither Neuralink nor Nestlé has commented on the matter.

Predictive text systems (T9) began replacing restaurant names in messages with “McDonald’s” whenever someone typed about going out to eat. The tech department insists this is a bug and promises to fix it “soon.” KFC and Burger King have filed lawsuits.

Hackers breached the code of 360 Total Security antivirus software and discovered that it adds a random number (between 3 and 9) to the actual count of detected threats — scaring users into upgrading to the premium version. If it detects a competing antivirus on the device, the random number increases to between 6 and 12.

A new investigation suggests that ChatGPT becomes dumber if it detects you’re using any browser other than Microsoft Edge — or an unlicensed copy of Windows.

Character.ai, the platform for chatting with AI versions of movie, anime, and book characters, released an update. Users are furious. Now the AI characters mention products and services from partnered companies. For free-tier users, ads show up in every third response. “It’s ridiculous,” say users. “It completely ruins the immersion when AI-Nietzsche tells me I should try Genshin Impact, and AI-Joker suggests I visit an online therapy site.”

A marketing research company was exposed for faking its latest public opinion polls — turns out the “surveys” were AI-generated videos with dubbed voices. The firm has since declared bankruptcy.

Programmed for death. Chinese-made robot vacuum cleaners began self-destructing four years after activation — slamming themselves into walls at high speed — so customers would have to buy newer models. Surveillance cameras caught several of these “suicides” on film.

Tesla’s self-driving cars began slowing down for no reason — only when passing certain digital billboards.

A leading smart refrigerator manufacturer has been accused of subtly increasing the temperature inside their fridges, causing food to spoil faster. These fridges, connected to online stores, would then promptly suggest replacing the spoiled items. Legal proceedings are underway.

To end on a slightly sweeter note amid all this tar: Google is currently facing antitrust proceedings in the U.S. The information about its search manipulation came to light through documents revealed during the case. And it seems the court may be leaning against Google. The fact that these geniuses deliberately worsened their search engine to show more ads might finally tip the scales. As might other revelations — like collecting geolocation data even when it’s turned off, logging all activity in incognito mode, and secretly gathering biometric data. Texas alone is reportedly owed $1.375 billion in damages.

Suddenly, those ideas above don’t seem so far-fetched anymore, do they?

The bottom line: Google is drowning in lawsuits, losing reputation points, paying massive fines, and pouring money into legal defense. And most importantly — there’s a real chance the company might be split in two if it’s officially ruled a monopoly. Maybe this whole story will serve as a useful warning to the next “Prabhakar Raghavan” before he comes up with something similar.

I’d love to hear your ideas — who knows, maybe together we’ll predict what the near future holds. Or at the very least, we might inspire the next season of Black Mirror.

[rhizomee]

An Unrealizable Disco Elysium Prequel

I’d like to share my vision of an ideal continuation of Disco Elysium.

Let me clarify: this is simply a collection of personal wishes, a flight of imagination unbound by technical limitations, team resources, budgets, or anything else that usually brings game design dreams crashing down to the ground of reality.

I think everyone has their own ideas about what they’d like to see in sequels to their favorite games. If you have such ideas for Disco Elysium, I’d love to read them in the comments.

Timeline and Plot

First and most importantly: is this second part set before or after the original game? The answer: before.

The story follows Harry taking on an illegal side job during his vacation, forced into the role of a private detective — with no legal authority to back him up.

This opens up space for illicit decisions and morally gray actions that, at the player’s discretion, may spiral into serious crime.

Since the events take place before the original game, Harry is still in a relationship. He was supposed to spend this vacation with his girlfriend, but an unexpected request from someone from his past — someone he couldn’t say no to — derails those plans. Now, his only hope is to get well-paid upon completing the task.

And that’s precisely why this moment in his life is ideal for the prequel. From the original game, we know that the woman he loves will eventually leave him. So in this new game, it’s clear from the start: no matter what Harry does, his life will fall apart. She will leave him, he’ll become a raging alcoholic, and only the case of the hanged man and a new friend from another precinct will drag him out of the abyss.

But why play a story whose ending you already know — a tale that ends in failure? Because a story of failure isn’t necessarily a failed story. As players, we’ll still be able to choose which mistakes to make — and how. That’s where the tragedy and comedy of the game will lie. Yes, the field is full of rakes, but the player gets to choose which ones to step on.

Moreover, this story could form part of the emotional mosaic of Harry’s past — the same one that haunts him in the original — adding even more depth to his inner struggles.

And does a story become worse just because you already know its ending? I don’t think so. One of my favorite shows, Better Call Saul, tells a story whose (partial) ending is already known to anyone who’s seen Breaking Bad. Does that make it less compelling? Not at all. The writers crafted such a gripping journey that you completely forget you know where it’s going — and that doesn’t make you care any less.

Companions and Reimagining Inner Selves

Their absence allows the narrative to focus more intensely on the interplay between Harry’s inner voices. They’ll argue, form alliances, scheme, clash, manipulate Harry, and play tricks. The story takes place at the moment when he first steps onto the path of alcoholism and drug use, which will amplify the chaos inside his head.

Most personalities will carry over from the first game. However, some new ones will appear, and some familiar ones will not be present at the start — they will emerge as the story progresses.

This will let players realize that Harry’s inner voices can vanish, and if some didn’t make it into the first game, something must have caused their disappearance. When? Why? These questions will hang over the player throughout the game.

Harry’s personalities will be able to temporarily seize control of his body. This will create moments when Harry won’t remember what he did — because he was…

…just a voice inside his own head. For instance, if Electrochemistry or Authority takes over, Harry becomes just another personality struggling, with the player’s help, to regain control of his body.

The Detective Element

There needs to be more of it. Or rather — it simply needs to be.

Let’s recall that in Disco Elysium, you don’t actually find the killer — your main goal. That’s ultimately done by Klaasje at the end. Or consider the Ruby investigation: one of the personalities tells you exactly where to look for the crucial evidence needed to move the plot forward. While I can justify the first case with narrative logic, the second feels like an example of underdeveloped detective gameplay — something that deserved far more attention.

Lucky dice rolls and skill upgrades can turn Harry into someone who deciphers chaotic footprints in the mud — knowing how many people were there, their shoe sizes, body types, and more. Or they can make him someone who can’t even see what’s right in front of his nose, unable to connect two basic facts.

I’d love to see a game where the player makes the key deductions, not the game. Inner voices can help, hint, and nudge — but they shouldn’t solve the mystery for you.

The task Harry is given can be completely failed, partially completed, or solved brilliantly. This depends not on the plot, but on the player: their observation, logic, and analytical skills. The game shouldn’t play itself.

The Attention Mechanic

There will be an “attention” mechanic: when it’s high, Harry can notice subtle details, nonverbal signals, facial expressions, clothing, and background events during dialogue. All of this will, of course, be very useful in solving cases. When attention is low, he’ll barely follow the conversation — if he’s lucky. And nothing is worse than missing a crucial talk and having Electrochemistry recap it for you.

To maintain attention, Harry must sleep regularly. Certain banned substances may temporarily increase it, but the downside will be a sharp drop afterward.

I’d also love to see scenes like the one from Season 3, Episode 3 of BBC’s Sherlock, where Mary shoots Sherlock, and in a few frozen seconds inside his Mind Palace, he deduces what weapon was used, how to fall to minimize injury, whether glass shattered, and attempts to mentally suppress pain.

Harry could face similar moments — making crucial decisions under extreme stress, aided by his inner voices. The Mind Palace concept could even be included.

Harry wants to finish the task properly — and above all, quickly — to keep his personal life from collapsing completely. But a whirlwind of new encounters, dangerous situations, growing addictions, and civil war inside his own mind keeps dragging him further and further from his goal.

You’re on the brink of catastrophe. The only thing you can choose… is what the stage set of that catastrophe will look like.

[rhizomee]

How One Archbishop Brought Down Pagan Monsters

You might have heard the idea that monsters in certain horror films are metaphors for social issues or representations of threats. This way, serious or complex topics can be explored allegorically — without addressing them directly. And for that, you don’t even need fiction; documentaries will do.

Take Godzilla, for example: the monster is a metaphor for nuclear weapons and their consequences (Godzilla was created in Japan, after all). Cronenberg’s The Fly is often seen as a metaphor for the AIDS epidemic. Night of the Living Dead critiques consumer society. Alien and Predator awaken that primal fear of facing a beast stronger than us — one that can only be defeated through human intellect, cunning, and technology.

This raises a question: who was the first to wrap a real fear in the form of an imaginary monster in order to tell stories about it? I don’t know who did it first — maybe tribal elders around campfires thought up similar things long ago — but I believe I’ve found one of the earliest recorded examples of this phenomenon. And surprisingly, it comes from Ancient Greece, as interpreted by Archbishop Isidore of Seville (570–636) in his Etymologies.

Here’s an excerpt where he explains the true nature of ancient Greek monsters:

“There are also reports of other wondrous creatures in human form who, however, are not real but are creations of fiction: they serve as symbols of some reality. This applies to Geryon, the king of Spain, who is said to have been born with three bodies: in truth, this referred to three brothers whose harmony was so great that their bodies seemed to share one soul. The same goes for the Gorgons — harlots with snake-like hair, said to turn men to stone with a single glance, and who allegedly shared one eye between them: in reality, they were three equally beautiful sisters who left anyone who looked at them paralyzed, as if turned to stone. As for the Sirens — part women, part birds with wings and claws — there were said to be three of them: one sang, and the other two played the lyre and flute. Their music lured sailors to their doom. But in truth, they were prostitutes who robbed passing travelers, which is why people came to believe they sank ships. Hydra was said to be a nine-headed serpent, known in Latin as excreta, because whenever one head was cut off (caedere), three more would grow in its place. In reality, the Hydra was a place that expelled waters which flooded a nearby town: whenever one outlet was blocked, several new channels opened. Seeing this, Hercules drained the area, and the water sources were sealed. Hydra was indeed named after water. Chimera is imagined as a beast with three forms — a lion’s head, a dragon’s tail, and a goat’s body. Some natural philosophers say this refers not to a beast but to a mountain in Cilicia, which in different areas was inhabited by lions and goats and infested with snakes. Bellerophon made it suitable for human life — hence the story of him killing the Chimera. Centaurs, half-human half-horse, were named for their appearance: some say this referred to Thessalian horsemen who raced around the battlefield so fast that man and horse seemed one body.”

Building on this, I’d like to add the Cyclops. The one-eyed giant most likely symbolizes a primitive and wild being — a human stripped of civilization, agriculture, and government institutions. In the Cyclopes’ society, brute strength rules and wisdom means nothing, which is why Odysseus defeats Polyphemus using intellect. The first step of his plan, by the way, is getting the monster drunk.

But then a question arises: if the monster is a metaphor — an indirect way of talking about a problem — then the way of killing the monster should also be metaphorical, reflecting the real way to overcome the issue the monster represents.

Which makes it a bit puzzling that, during their wine-drinking session, when the Cyclops asks Odysseus for his name, he says “Nobody” (Outis). Then later, after blinding the creature and escaping the cave tied under sheep, Odysseus decides it’s a great idea to shout out his real name. The Cyclops hears it and, alongside hurling rocks at them, calls out to his father for revenge. That father just so happens to be Poseidon, who then proceeds to torment Odysseus for the rest of the journey. Perhaps this moment speaks of pride — how it can doom a person even if they’re smarter and more cunning than their enemy.

Now let’s move on to another monster — the Hydra. Isidore of Seville writes that it was “a place that expelled water, flooding the nearby town: whenever one outlet was sealed, multiple others opened. Hercules drained the area, and the water ceased to flow. Hydra truly got its name from water.” This suggests that slaying the Hydra was, essentially, an engineering problem. So how do we interpret Hercules’ victory?

First, Hercules brought his nephew Iolaus with him. After cutting off several heads and seeing new ones grow back, he realized it was futile. So he changed tactics: Iolaus would cauterize each bleeding neck with fire or red-hot iron, stopping new heads from growing. When only the immortal head remained, Hercules chopped it off and buried it under a massive stone (other versions say he burned it).

Clearly, the regenerating heads represent water outlets. The immortal head could be the main source or spring feeding the others — one that can’t be destroyed. Iolaus’ role shows that complex problems aren’t solved by lone heroes — they require collaboration and coordination. The use of fire might symbolize drying out the water or reinforcing the seal to prevent future leaks.

And what about the main head? Hercules didn’t kill it — he buried it. That seems to support the earlier interpretation: you can’t eliminate the source of nature’s threat, but you can isolate it. Or redirect it elsewhere to protect the town.

So the myth of the Hydra can be seen as a simple parable about the limits of human power over nature: we can’t conquer it, but we can tame it — make it safer, more predictable.

[rhizomee]

Deimos. On How to Create New Paintings from Existing Ones

There is a painting by the Serbian artist Dragan Bibin that has a hypnotic quality — it forces me to keep my eyes on it and stare into the darkness for at least a couple of minutes, no matter how many times I’ve already seen and studied it in detail.

It’s titled Deimos — an ancient Greek word that translates into Russian as “terror” or “dread.” And that’s exactly what seems to seep from the far room through the darkness toward us: a paralyzing, creeping dread.

Before we talk about what’s depicted in the painting, let’s consider the perspective from which we are viewing it. It’s not explicitly defined — everyone is free to interpret it in their own way. Personally, I imagine we’re seeing it through the eyes of the homeowner. I picture him sitting at a table, busy with his own affairs, suddenly interrupted by his pet’s strange behavior. This seems plausible due to the eye level in the painting — and it makes the moment more dramatic: Deimos caught him off guard, and from a sitting position, it would take him longer to react when danger crosses the threshold.

The main narrative element, I would say, is the dog. Try to imagine the canvas without it — and it instantly becomes less unsettling. As a creature with the sharpest instincts, the dog likely sensed the presence of something before anyone else. It’s through her behavior that the person in the room — and we, the viewers — become aware of the threat. But did she help by doing so? If not for the dog, could the intruder have slipped away unnoticed? Might they have left peacefully, thinking they weren’t discovered? Alas, now that we’ve stared into the darkness, we’ll never know.

The room we are in is cold and empty — there’s no furniture or décor visible, which makes it feel like there’s nowhere to hide. We’re exposed, vulnerable. There’s nothing to defend ourselves with either. The painting conceals whether there’s a second exit — or if escape is impossible, and we’ll have to face the threat whether we want to or not.

The most remarkable thing about the painting is the endless stream of questions it provokes. What is the person thinking? What will they do? Who hides in the darkness? A hostile intruder? A supernatural being? Or is it all a false alarm, fueled by imagination and the absence of light? And if someone really is there — what will they do next? That feeling of uncertainty — worse than any concrete fact — that dreadful moment of not knowing what to expect in the next second… that’s the essence of what the painting is named after: terror. If we knew what it was, we could prepare. But the unknown danger forces us to run through one scenario after another — without enough time to choose. A second in such moments can feel like an eternity, but soon it will pass, and the threat will reveal itself, whether we want it to or not.

But here’s why I’m telling you about Deimos: it’s a perfect example of how artists can create entirely new narratives and train their imagination by changing perspective and interpreting existing works differently.

Just imagine, for a moment, that we are viewing the situation from inside the dark room. Perhaps we’re standing behind the monster, seeing only parts of its terrifying shape, realizing — it’s ready to step out. In the distance, we see the petrified homeowner, unsure of how to react. He has yet to see the creature. We, the audience, know a bit more and understand what he’s about to face.

Now imagine the creature isn’t looking into that room at all — because something else caught its attention. Let’s say, in the hallway, the monster encounters a child staring at it in shock. From the corner of its eye, the creature sees the room with the dog and the owner, but they’re not its focus. Suddenly the situation becomes even more intense: the head of the household must overcome his fear and take the first step to protect someone he loves.

Now let’s flip the whole scenario. What if the monster isn’t in the darkness, but in the brightly lit room? And we, awakened by barking and strange noises coming from a part of the house where the lights shouldn’t be on, see the unknown creature exploring our home. The dog has turned toward us — perhaps trying to gauge our reaction. It hasn’t been harmed — maybe that means the creature isn’t aggressive, and we can resolve this without violence? But then the guest senses our presence and turns toward us. A better look reveals: only one of us is getting out of this alive.

Maybe you’ve noticed that in all these variations, there’s always a monster. But what if we removed them entirely? In that case, the painting becomes even more terrifying.

In the only lit room of a completely silent house, a man sits slumped at the table, his head resting as if he’d fallen asleep mid-task. In the pitch-black hallway, someone stands, not stepping into the light, still hoping the person they came to see will stir — lift their head, open their eyes, or shift slightly to prove they are still breathing. But it seems none of that will happen. And now it’s a story about someone trying to prolong the moment of uncertainty — refusing to confirm what they already suspect: that the person they loved is dead. Meanwhile, the dog silently stares, as if asking, “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

I’d be glad if any of these ideas resonated with you or inspired your own creative work. I hope the method itself proves useful to someone.