The Metaverse Could Have Been an Email
Coming into the high tech meeting space, I’m greeted by a molded plastic chair with a steel tube frame; a mass-produced and mass-stackable staple of offices and convention centers throughout the western world. It’s arranged with identical siblings in semi-circles around a central platform, a small raised stage with large projector screens to either side. Shrouded fluorescent lights hang from the drop ceiling on short stalks, and tall windows frame a distant picturesque landscape.
Or a modern cityscape. Or if we’re lucky, a starfield with a false-color nebula.
The whole scene has been conjured up in the metaverse, a digital fabrication perceived through the aid of a virtual reality headset. That backdrop, the parallax horizon known as a “skybox”, is the only feature showing a hint of imagination — everything else is composed of the same dry corporate schtick found anywhere and everywhere.
But here in the metaverse, “anywhere” should take on a different meaning; why mimic the worst of our physical (and budgetary) design constraints in blatant affectation when those conventions no longer apply? If I can go to any time and any place… Why would I want to be here?
While depressingly common, not all executive or academic venues share such a lack of creativity, or a misguided belief that so-called “digital twins” are required for projecting an air of professionalism and brand identity — and digi-twins do have their uses, when preservation of spatial layout is vital to operational training, navigation, or envisioning design and real estate for example. But those uses are about the space, not the people in it.
Probably the next feature you’ll encounter in company-town VR is: a campfire.
Even in these pixelate facsimiles — flames recreated by visual and auditory effects and clever programming, no radiant heat or wafting scent of carbonizing lignin — there’s still an enticing pull, a beckoning call from a campfire. It adds its own voice to the conversation, a fluctuating energy that decreases the demand on others to constantly fill the space; an invitation to alternately reflect, share, or fall silent without awkwardness.
Humanity and fire have a long history, literally intermingled with our biology, and deeply embedded in our collective culture. Why they’re so often chosen as beacons in virtual placemaking is usually an instinctive selection rather than a calculated one, and bears a closer look: it’s all about gathering.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”
In the modern workplace, gathering is — or should be — an intentional, conscientious, and respectful act. Time and attention are the gold-standard currency of synchronous labor, and anything which can be made asynchronous or converted to a broadcast saves everyone vast quantities of those precious scarce resources. Calling people together simply to disseminate information feels discourteous, hence the snide adage of implied waste: “This meeting could have been an email.”
Purposeful gathering then, justifiable meetings, are reserved either for sharing (and containing) sensitive details, or for participation: contribution, rumination, processing, a back-and-forth exploration that takes us somewhere new together. When the outcome is not predetermined, and we have opportunity to transform the topic, the material, each other, or all-of-the-above: this high sensory bandwidth, realtime co-cognition, relationship-building, and instantaneous feedback loop is a powerful tool. So much so that it’s one of the top two rationalizations provided for return-to-office mandates (together with productivity), albeit under a mistaken notion that physical co-presence is the only avenue to such engaged connectivity — but this debate is better covered elsewhere.
There’s a bigger problem, though: however lofty the aim and regardless of the medium, most organizations are bad at gathering. Existing meeting rituals, even the rare good ones, are shaped by the cage in which they were raised: an artificial forest of Aeron chairs bound by square walls, behind the shatter-proof glass of budgets and OSHA regulations, with only stationery supplies or the occasional serving of dry spaghetti and marshmallows for “enrichment activities”. Being raised in captivity has never been synonymous with creative liberty and inspiration, and these hilariously bad “corporate metaverse” stylings repeatedly re-create the worst of these environmental traits via immersive tech before inevitably abandoning them, citing (predictably) poor adoption and retention.
On the other side, a cadre of Virtual Natives can’t get enough of those same technologies, finding ever more inventive ways of applying them to their social and professional endeavors. So what’s the gap? Why is it deeply enticing — even magical — for some, and allergenic or downright revolting to others?
I was fortunate to spend a few years exploring this boundary from both sides using rigorous research. What we found was nothing like what we expected, and forced us to fundamentally rethink our approach.
A warm, timeless mediterranean twilight casts an exotic air over the world, seasoned by a subtle musical refrain. Architecture and decor clearly designate this as some kind of street market; the humble stalls are untended, but feel as though the hawkers have only just stepped away and could return at any moment. Other plazas and buildings are visible floating in the distance, hanging unreachable in the gloaming emptiness.
Dominating the plaza is a raised fire pit set in a concentric terrace, its flames presided over by an unmistakable, larger-than-life djinn. The Roman-style oil lamp of legend glitters with inviting magic underneath it, but little else in the scene shows any sign of life or motion: everything is still, and expectant.
A small sign bears limited instructions in front of the imposing centerpiece, but the “game” is obvious and tempting: an unguarded stall on the right hand housing three bins of simple, fist-sized totems, beneath a plank emblazoned with the words “Choose Your Fate!” Fellow travelers quickly find their way to the bins and select either a smooth round violet orb, a flat green cube, or a spiky metallic red star. One by one they offer their treasures to the genie’s fire, where they burst into dramatic clouds of smoke and change the color of the flames and glowing light to match the sacrificial objects.
Each participant is greeted with a secret question visible only to them, corresponding to the “intensity” of their selection; it is their choice whether to share the prompt or its answer. Silly, heartwarming, scary, mundane, and eminently human conversation — and connection — abounds in the resulting chaotic self-organized theater.
The ingredients for rapidly-deepening rapport are abundant: vulnerability and curiosity, stoked by the fear-suspending qualities of play. Complete strangers become friends, teams become tight, and lasting memories are added to our shared story in this now emotionally permeated world.
None of our experiments featured desks, whiteboards, or conference-room easel pads. Neither are those tools and trappings “work” in their own right, but means toward an end: to create, share, refine, and apply ideas. Mimicking those same interfaces isn’t appropriate in virtual settings, where reading is difficult, input is imprecise, and every moment and action more physically demanding. We needed new tools for the same objectives, with respect for the capabilities and limitations of the medium.
The work of the Genie Game is a typical ice-breaker scenario, traditionally conducted with a stack of cards dispensing random conversation starters. We kept the premise, and envisioned a new process and setting — and in so doing hit on an important insight, repeatedly borne out in all our surveys and data analyses.
No matter the activity, whether team dynamics, ideation, problem solving, prioritization, etc., the single highest predictor of success and satisfaction was: emotional presence.
Emotional investment is the key to imbuing the ephemeral with a sense of value: objects acquire meaning, landscapes form the grounding plane for evolving stories, and people accumulate a common history—all foundations of resilient culture. Helping people feel authentically present requires more than embodiment, it needs a narrative element to reflect a sense of self, and to connect that self with others.
Connected people make collaboration happen.
We regularly had to call “time” at the Genie’s maidan, and pull everyone back to the schedule — though many have since returned, bringing co-workers and other groups to share their experience. Something was born during our visits there; the memory of place and people is strong, and the connections genuine and lasting.
Realizing the deeper potential of virtual presence technologies will not be about re-creating the familiar, or even emulating the specific. Moving “what we currently do” straight into the metaverse isn’t enough of a reason to don a headset, and fails to add value or respect people’s needs. Work must be reimagined at its fundamentals: what are you really trying to accomplish, and — when VR is an appropriate option — what’s the best way to do that?
Give place and purpose for people to explore themselves and each other first, and then build on that foundation. The supposed “killer app” everyone’s searching for is: you.
Try doing that over email.
