Home
Evan relates a personal tale of deception and anger as a vigorous contest between him and his friends reveals something sinister about human nature. Do we need extrinsic motivation to act selflessly? Can we do good for goodness's sake? The lessons revealed in this Folding@home competition only reinforce my own personal and academic observations of our seemingly innate narcissism.
The gradual perversion and mutation of Folding@home didn't take very long for me. At first, I thought the initiative was a remarkable way for a little son of a bitch such as myself to make a big difference.
Participation didn't require doing anything unreasonable, like leaving my home, talking to people, or donating my curly locks of love. No, Folding didn't require doing anything more than pressing a series of buttons, and it was a virtuous undertaking I was heroically prepared to commit myself wholeheartedly. Five minutes into my first work unit, a malignant, festering selfishness that grew like a tumor underneath a Soviet x-ray machine replaced the rapidly shrinking altruistic charm of contributing to a greater good.
It was harmless enough at first. Folding became a delightful visualizer for me. Every tender nudge of the analog stick endlessly entertained me with seizure-like dances of strange molecules and the cute marimba sounds they made.
I also spent hours looking at the world map; I scoured continents for small, isolated beacons, which represented fellow "folders." These miniature lighthouses really told you a lot about the economic standing of a country (i.e., the few beacons in Africa were located in the southern regions). They also prompted questions as much as they provided answers: Who is that lonely dot out in the middle of the ocean? Is he some outlaw living on a houseboat along the boundaries of international waters? Is he L. Ron Hubbard? Perhaps the dot is some mysterious electrical anomaly emanating from the sunken city of Atlantis, which teases us with her existence and hidden majesty.
But two pinpricks of light on this map -- two lonely nodes lost among the aurora glow of the East Coast -- would keep their virtual fires burning; stewards preoccupied with a custodial maintenance of folding -- not out of a philanthropic spirit but a competitive one.
The sinister enterprise began when my friend, Ben, noticed the number of work units I had accumulated. His voice held the most subtle and indifferent tone of awe; actually, it was more a distant cousin of awe, but it was a relative of awe nonetheless. That was more than enough of a spark to light this cataclysmic powder keg.
Before long, I went to his house and noticed that he had surpassed me in the war on cancer. This was unacceptable. This newcomer -- this mere protein private -- would trounce my polyp-pounding high score of 10 work units? Not on my watch. So, the unspoken duel of wits, work units, and energy consumption commenced.
The competition seems so ridiculous now, but it made perfect sense at the time. We felt a sense of accomplishment not from the bigger picture: the knowledge that our dedicated participation was potentially of some medical significance. Instead, our satisfaction came from a series of numbers, which we earned by not using our brand-new PlayStation 3s to play games. We effectively got stronger for our PS3s being weaker, which we reduced to a dormant, vegetative coma of perpetual folding and overstressed cooling fans. If purgatory does exist, it's most likely being a ventilator in my PS3 for the duration of this feud.
The contentious bout reached its apex when a new and unexpected contender entered. Ben and I noticed that beneath our friend Reid's PSN ID, it constantly stated -- day or night -- that he was folding. Naturally, we had to investigate this potential threat. We invited ourselves over his house under the artificial pretense of wanting to hang out, but for all intents and purposes this was a recon mission. What we discovered destroyed us.
