In Bird-dogging the web I responded to questions raised by Mike Caulfield about how annotation can help us fact-check the web. He’s now written a definition of the political technique, called bird-dogging, we discussed in those posts. It’s a method of recording candidates’ positions on issues, but it’s recently been mis-characterized as a way to incite violence. I’ve annotated a batch of articles that conflate bird-dogging with violence:
Each annotation links to Mike’s definition. Collectively they form a data set that can be used to trace the provenance of the bird-dogging = violence meme. A digital humanist could write an interesting paper on how the meme flows through a network of sources, and how it morphs along the way. But how will such evidence ever make a difference?
In Annotating the wild west of information flow I sketched an idea that weaves together annotation, a proposed standard for fact-checking called ClaimReview, and Google’s plan to use that standard to add Fact Check labels to news articles. These ingredients are necessary but not sufficient. The key missing ingredient? President Obama nailed it in his remarks at the White House Frontiers Conference: “We’re going to have to rebuild, within this wild west of information flow, some sort of curating function that people agree to.”
It can sometimes seem, in this polarized era, that we can agree on nothing. But we do agree, at least tacitly, on the science behind the technologies that sustain our civilization: energy, agriculture, medicine, construction, communication, transportation. When evidence proves that cigarettes can cause lung cancer, or that buildings in some places need to be earthquake-resistant, most of us accept it. Can we learn to honor evidence about more controversial issues? If that’s possible, annotation’s role will be to help us marshal that evidence.
In Annotating the wild west of information flow I responded to President Obama’s appeal for “some sort of curating function that people agree to” with a Hypothes.is thought experiment. What if an annotation tool could make claims about the veracity of statements on the web, and record those claims in a standard machine-readable format such as ClaimReview? The example I gave there: a climate scientist can verify or refute an assertion about climate change in a newspaper article.
“Bird-dogging is a term coined by high-level Clinton staffers who openly talk about it in the video. They boast about inciting violence at Trump rallies, paying for every protest…”
Mike knows better.
Wait, what? Bird-dogging is about violence?
I was a bird-dogger for some events in 2008 and as a blogger got to know a bunch of bird-doggers in my work as a blogger. Clinton didn’t invent the term and it has nothing to do with violence.
So he annotates the statement. But he’s not just refuting a claim, he’s explaining what bird-dogging really means: you follow candidates around and film their responses to questions about your issues.
Now Mike realizes that he can’t find an authoritative definition of that practice. So, being an expert on the subject, he writes one. Which prompts this question:
Why the heck am I going to write a comment that is only visible from this one page? There are hundreds (maybe thousands) of pages on the internet making use of the fact that there is no clear explanation of this on the web.
Mike’s annotation does two things at once. It refutes a claim about bird-dogging on one specific page. That’s the sweet spot for annotation. His note also provides a reusable definition of bird-dogging that ought to be discoverable in other contexts. Here there’s nothing special about a Hypothes.is note versus a wiki page, a blog post, or any other chunk of URL-addressable content. An authoritative definition of bird-dogging could exist in any of these forms. The challenge, as Mike suggests, is to link that definition to many relevant contexts in a discoverable way.
The mechanism I sketched in Annotating the wild west of information flow lays part of the necessary foundation. Mike could write his authoritative definition, post it to his wiki, and then use Hypothes.is to link it, by way of ClaimReview-enhanced annotations, to many misleading statements about bird-dogging around the web. So far, so good. But how will readers discover those annotations?
Suppose Mike belongs to a team of political bloggers who aggregate claims they collectively make about statements on the web. Each claim links to a Hypothes.is annotation that locates the statement in its original context and to an authoritative definition that lives at some other URL.
Suppose also that Google News regards Mike’s team as a credible source of machine-readable claims for which it will surface the Fact Check label. Now we’re getting somewhere. Annotation alone doesn’t solves Mike’s problem, but it’s a key ingredient of the solution I’m describing.
If we ever get that far, of course, we’ll run into an even more difficult problem. In an era of media fragmentation, who will ever subscribe to sources that present Fact Check labels in conflict with beliefs? But given the current state of affairs, I guess that would be a good problem to have.
The story Jan Dawson tells in The De-Democratization of Online Publishing is familiar to me. Like him, I was thrilled to be part of the birth of personal publishing in the mid-1990s. By 2001 my RSS feedreader was delivering a healthy mix of professional and amateur sources. Through the lens of my RSS reader, stories in the New York Times were no more or less important than blog posts from my peers in the tech blogosophere, And because RSS was such a simple format, there was no technical barrier to entry. It was a golden era of media democratization not seen before or since.
As Dawson rightly points out, new formats from Google (Accelerated Mobile Pages) and Facebook (Instant Articles) are “de-democratizing” online publishing by upping the ante. These new formats require skills and tooling not readily available to amateurs. That means, he says, that “we’re effectively turning back the clock to a pre-web world in which the only publishers that mattered were large publishers and it was all but impossible to be read if you didn’t work for one of them.”
Let’s unpack that. When I worked for a commercial publisher in 2003, my charter was to bring its audience to the web and establish blogging as a new way to engage with that audience. But my situation was atypical. Most of the bloggers I read weren’t, like me, working for employers in the business of manufacturing audiences. They were narrating their work and conserving keystrokes. Were they impossible to read? On the contrary, if you shared enough interests in common it was impossible not to read them.
When publishers created audiences and connected advertisers to them, you were unlikely to be read widely. Those odds don’t change when Google and Facebook become the publishers; only the gatekeepers do. But when publishing is personal and social, that doesn’t matter.
One of the bloggers I met long ago, Lucas Gonze, is a programmer and a musician who curates and performs 19th-century parlour music. He reminded me that before the advent of recording and mass distribution, music wasn’t performed by a small class of professionals for large audiences. People gathered around the piano in the parlour to play and sing.
Personal online publishing once felt like that. I don’t know if it will again, but the barrier isn’t technical. The tools invented then still exist and they work just fine. The only question is whether we’ll rekindle our enthusiasm for reading and writing for our peers.
I’ve been in the web publishing game since it began, and for all this time I’ve struggled to make peace with the refusal of the Portable Document Format (PDF) to wither and die. Why, in a world of born-digital documents mostly created and displayed on computers and rarely printed, would we cling to a format designed to emulate sheets of paper bound into books?
For those of us who labor to extract and repurpose the contents of PDF files, it’s a nightmare. You can get the text out of a PDF file but you can’t easily reconstruct the linear stream that went in. That problem is worse for tabular data. For web publishers, it’s a best practice to separate content assets (text, lists, tables, images) from presentation (typography, layout) so the assets can be recombined for different purposes and reused in a range of of formats: print, screens of all sizes. PDF authoring tools could, in theory, enable some of that separation, but in practice they don’t. Even if they did, it probably wouldn’t matter much.
Consider a Word document. Here the tools for achieving separation are readily available. If you want to set the size of a heading you don’t have to do it concretely, by setting it directly. Instead you can do it abstractly, by defining a class of heading, setting properties on the class, and assigning the class to your heading. This makes perfect sense to programmers and zero sense to almost everyone else. Templates help. But when people need to color outside the lines, it’s most natural to do so concretely (by adjusting individual elements) not abstractly (by defining and using classes).
It is arguably a failure of software design that our writing tools don’t notice repetition of concrete patterns and guide us to corresponding abstractions. That’s true for pre-web tools like Word. It’s equally true for web tools — like Google Docs — that ape their ancestors. Let’s play this idea out. What if, under the covers, the tools made a clean separation of layout and typography (defined in a style sheet) from text, images, and data (stored in a repository)? Great! Now you can restyle your document, and print it or display it on any device. And you can share with others who work with you on any of their devices.
What does sharing mean, though? It gets complicated. The statements “I’ll send you the document” or “I’ll share the document with you” can sometimes mean: “Here is a link to the document.” But they can also mean: “Here is a copy of the document.” The former is cognitively unnatural for the same reason that defining abstract styles is. We tend to think concretely. We want to manipulate things in the digital world directly. Although we’re learning to appreciate how the link enables collaboration and guarantees we see the same version, sending or sharing a copy (which affords neither advantage) feels more concrete and therefore more natural than sending or sharing a link.
Psychology notwithstanding, we can’t (yet) be sure that the recipient of a document we send or share will able to use it online. So, often, sending or sharing can’t just mean transferring a link. It has to mean transferring a copy. The sender attaches the copy to a message, or makes the copy available to the recipient for download.
That’s where the PDF file shines. It bundles a set of assets into a single compound document. You can’t recombine or repurpose those assets easily, if at all. But transfer is a simple transaction. The sender does nothing extra to bundle it for transmission, and the recipient does nothing extra to unbundle it for use.
I’ve been thinking about this as I observe my own use of Google Docs. Nowadays I create lots of them. My web publishing instincts tell me to create sets of reusable assets and then link them together. Instead, though, I find myself making bigger and bigger Google Docs. One huge driver of this behavior has been the ability to take screenshots, crop them, and copy/paste them into a doc. It’s massively more efficient than the corresponding workflow in, say, WordPress, where the process entails saving a file, uploading to the Media Folder, and then sourcing the image from there.
Another driver has been the Google Docs table of contents feature. I have a 100-page Google Doc that’s pushing the limits of the system and really ought to be a set of interlinked files. But the workflow for that is also a pain: capture the link to A, insert it into B, capture the link to B, insert it into A. I’ve come to see the table of contents feature — which builds the TOC as a set of links derived from doc headings — as a link automation tool.
As the Google Drive at work accumulates more stuff, I’m finding it harder to find and assemble bits and pieces scattered everywhere. It’s more productive to work with fewer but larger documents that bundle many bits and pieces together. If I send you a link to a section called out in the TOC, it’s as if I sent you a link to an individual document. But you land in a context that enables you to find related stuff by scanning the TOC. That can be a more reliable method of discovery, for you, than searching the whole Google Drive.
Can’t I just keep an inventory of assets in a folder and point you to the folder? Yes, but I’ve tried, it feels way less effective, I think there are two reasons why. First, there’s the overhead of creating and naming the assets. Second, the TOC conveys outline structure that the folder listing doesn’t.
This method is woefully imperfect for all kinds of reasons. A 100-page Google Doc is an unwieldy construct. Anonymous assets can’t be found by search. Links to headings lack human-readable information. And yet it’s effective because, I am coming to realize, there’s an ancient and powerful technology at work here. When I create a Google Doc in this way I am creating something like a book.
This may explain why the seeming immortality of the PDF format is less crazy than I have presumed. Even so, I’m still not ready to ante up for Acrobat Pro. I don’t know exactly what a book that’s born digital and read on devices ought to be. I do know a PDF file isn’t the right answer. Nor is a website delivered as a zip file. We need a thing with properties of both.
I think a W3C Working Draft entitled Portable Web Publications for the Open Web Platform (PWP) points in the right direction. Here’s the manifesto:
Our vision for Portable Web Publications is to define a class of documents on the Web that would be part of the Digital Publishing ecosystem but would also be fully native citizens of the Open Web Platform.
PWP usefully blurs distinctions along two axes.
That’s exactly what’s needed to achieve the goal. We want compound documents to be able to travel as packed bundles. We want to address their parts individually. And we want both modes available to us regardless of whether the documents are local or remote.
Because a PWP will be made from an inventory of managed assets, it will require professional tooling that’s beyond the scope of Google Docs or Word Online. Today it’s mainly commercial publishers who create such tools and use them to take apart and reconstruct the documents — typically still Word files — sent to them by authors. But web-native authoring tools are emerging, notably in scientific publishing. It’s not a stretch to imagine such tools empowering authors to create publication-ready books in PWP. It’s more of a stretch to imagine successors to Google Docs and Word Online making that possible for those of us who create book-like business documents. But we can dream.
It’s been a decade since I interviewed Paul English on the subject of customer service and human dignity (audio). He was CTO and co-founder at kayak but in this interview we talked more about GetHuman. It had begun as a list of cheats to help you hack through the automated defenses of corporate customer service and get to a real person. Here’s how I remember The IVR Cheat Sheet back then:
|finance||phone||steps to find a human|
|America First Credit Union||800-999-3961||0 or say “member services”|
|American Express||800-528-4800||0 repeatedly|
|Bank of America||800-900-9000||00 or dial 813-882-1103 for Executive Office.|
|Bank of America||800-622-8731||*|
|Bank of America||800-432-1000||Say “operator” or “associate” at any point in the menu.||Charles Schwab||800-435-9050||3, 0|
|Chase||800-CHASE24||5 pause 1 4|
|Chrysler Financial||800-700-0738||Select language, then press 00|
|Citi AAdvantage||888-766-2484||Ignore prompts and wait for a human.|
In our interview Paul said:
Dignity is defined in part as giving people the right to make decisions. In particular if it’s a company I’m paying $100/month for cable or cell phone or whatever, and they don’t give me the ability to decide when I need to talk to a human, I find it really insulting.
When the CEO makes the terrible decision to treat customer service as a cost center, the bonus for the VP who runs it is based on one thing: shaving pennies off the cost of the call.
Which is a tragedy because customer service is a huge opportunity for business differentiation. If we set up a false dichotomy, where it’s either automated or human, we’re missing out on the real opportunity which is to connect the right people to the right context at the right time. That’s what needs to happen, but a tricky thing to orchestrate and there doesn’t seem to be any vision for how to do that.
I’ve used GetHuman for 10 years. Yesterday I went there to gird for battle with Comcast and was delighted to see that the service has morphed into this:
Boston-based startup GetHuman on Wednesday unveiled a new service that lets you to pay $5 to $25 to hire a “problem solver” who will call a company’s customer service line on your behalf to resolve issues. Prices vary depending on the company, but GetHuman offers to fight for your airline refund, deal with Facebook account issues, or perhaps even prevent a grueling call with Comcast to disconnect your service.
— CNET, May 4, 2016
I’m really curious about their hands-off problem-solving service and will try it in other circumstances, but my negotiation with Comcast was going to require my direct involvement. So this free call-back service made my day:
How our Comcast call-back works
First we call Comcast, wade through their phone maze, wait on hold for you, and then call you back when an agent can talk. We try 4 times, in case we don’t get through the first time. Of course, once you do talk to a Comcast rep, you still have to do the talking, negotiating, etc.
I went back to work. The call came. Normally I’d be feeling angry and humiliated in this situation. Instead I felt happy and empowered. Companies have used their robots to thwart me all these years. Now I’ve got a robot on my side of the table. It’s on!
My all-time favorite scene in The Matrix, if not in all of moviedom, is the one where Trinity needs to know how to fly a helicopter. “Tank, I need a pilot program for a B-212.” Her eyelids flutter while she downloads the skill.
Here’s a thing that happened today. I needed to test a contribution from Ned Zimmerman that will improve the Hypothesis WordPress plugin. The WordPress setup I’d been using had rotted, it was time for a refresh, and the way you do that nowadays is with a tool called Docker. I’d used it for other things but not yet for WordPress. So of course I searched:
wordpress docker ubuntu
'module' object has on attribute 'connection'
Many have tried to solve this problem. Some have succeeded. But for my particular Linux setup it just wasn’t in the cards. Pretty quickly I pulled the trigger on that approach, went back to the chorus, and tried another recipe which worked like a charm.
The point is that there is no definitive recipe for the task. Circumstances differ. There’s a set of available recipes, some better than others for your particular situation. You want to be able to discover them, then rapidly evaluate them.
Learning by consulting a chorus is something programmers and sysadmins take for granted because a generation of open source practice has built a strong chorus. The band’s been together for a long time, a community knows the tunes.
Can this approach help us master other disciplines? Yes, but only if the work of practitioners is widely available online for review and study. Where that requirement is met, choral explanations ought to be able to flourish.
Silicon Valley’s enthusiasm for a universal basic income follows naturally from a techno-utopian ideology of abundance. As robots displace human workers, they’ll provide more and more of the goods and services that humans need, faster and cheaper and better than we could. We’ll just need to be paid to consume those goods and services.
This narrative reveals a profound failure of imagination. Our greatest tech visionary, Doug Engelbart, wanted to augment human workers, not obsolete them. If an automated economy can free people from drudgework and — more importantly — sustain them, I’m all for it. But I believe that many people want to contribute if they can. Some want to teach. Some want to care for the elderly. Some want to build affordable housing. Some want to explore a field of science. Some want to grow food. Some want to write news stories about local or global issues.
Before we pay people simply to consume, why wouldn’t we subsidize these jobs? People want to do them, too few are available and they pay too poorly, expanding these workforces would benefit everyone.
The argument I’ll make here applies equally to many kinds of jobs, but I’ll focus here on journalism because my friend Joshua Allen invited me to respond to a Facebook post in which he says, in part:
We thought we were creating Borges’ Library of Babel, but we were haplessly ushering in the surveillance state and burning down the journalistic defenses that might have protected us from ascendant Trump.
Joshua writes from the perspective of someone who, like me, celebrated an era of technological progress that hasn’t served society in the ways we imagined it would. But we can’t simply blame the web for the demise of journalism. We mourn the loss of an economic arrangement — news as a profit-making endeavor — that arguably never ought to have existed. At the dawn of the republic it did not.
This is a fundamental of democratic theory: that you have to have an informed citizenry if you’re going to have not even self-government, but any semblance of the rule of law and a constitutional republic, because people in power will almost always gravitate to doing things to benefit themselves that will be to the harm of the Republic, unless they’re held accountable, even if they’re democratically elected. That’s built into our constitutional system. And that’s why the framers of the Constitution were obsessed with a free press; they were obsessed with understanding if you don’t have a credible press system, the Constitution can’t work. And that’s why the Framers in the first several generations of the Republic, members of Congress and the President, put into place extraordinary press subsidies to create a press system that never would have existed had it been left to the market.
It’s true that a universal basic income would enable passionate journalists like Dave Askins and Mary Morgan to inform their communities in ways otherwise uneconomical. But we can do better than that. The best journalism won’t be produced by human reporters or robot reporters. It will be a collaboration among them.
The hottest topic in Silicon Valley, for good reason, is machine learning. Give the machines enough data, proponents say, and they’ll figure out how to outperform us on tasks that require intelligence — even, perhaps, emotional intelligence. It helps, of course, if the machines can study the people now doing those tasks. So we’ll mentor our displacers, show them the ropes, help them develop and tune their algorithms. The good news is that we will at least play a transitional role before we’re retired to enjoy our universal basic incomes. But what if we don’t want that outcome? And what if it isn’t the best outcome we could get?
Let’s change the narrative. The world needs more and better journalism. Many more want to do that journalism than our current economy can sustain. The best journalism could come from people who are augmented by machine intelligence. Before we pay people to consume it, let’s pay some of them to partner with machines in order to produce quality journalism at scale.