Death by Video Game: Tales of Obsession From the Virtual Frontline by Simon Parkin

political systems in which we operate.
    Launched in 2003, EVE Online is a science-fiction video game of unprecedented scale and ambition, a cosmos comprising 7,500 interconnected star systems and home to more than half a million people who barter, fight, and collaborate with one another in what has become a vast and fascinating social experiment.
    As in life, your experience in the game is largely dictated by where you are born and live. High Security dwellers can keep a low profile as they eke out an honest living as a miner or trader, earning money with which to improve their ship or dwelling. The Null Spacers, who live in the galactic equivalent of the Wild West, by contrast, throw themselves into a Machiavellian world of intrigue, engaging in dynamic, player-led plotlines, conspiracies, and intergalactic heists.
    In one notorious incident a few years ago, members of a mercenary group worked for twelve months to infiltrate a powerful ingame corporation. They took on jobs within the company’s structure and ingratiated themselves with its staff. Then, in one orchestrated attack, the group seized the company’s assets, ambushed its female CEO, blew up her ship, and delivered her frozen corpse to the client who paid for the assassination. Not only was this an act of astounding coordination, but it had real-world value too: the virtual assets seized were worth tens of thousands of U.S. dollars.
    Few video games accommodate the unpredictability of human interaction and will with such freedom. For that reason, EVE ’s population is diverse and enthusiastic. But for its developer, CCP Games, this presents a significant problem: how to develop and evolve the galaxy in such a way that it keeps everyone, from the day-tripping explorer to the money-grubbing space pirate, content. The solution? The Council of Stellar Management (CSM), a democratically elected player council whose job is to representthe interests of the game’s vast population to its Icelandic creators.
    Each year, scores of would-be player-politicians stand for the CSM. Just fourteen of those who campaign are elected. Every six months, CCP flies the successful candidates to their headquarters in Reykjavik for three days of intensive debate. During that time the council meets with CCP’s in-house economist, Dr. Eyjólfur Guðmundsson, and hears about the new features planned for the galaxy’s future. If necessary, they can contest these proposals in the interests of their electorate. Minutes are kept of each meeting and made public afterwards, so there’s full transparency as to whether a councillor is making good on their campaign promises.
    ‘Council members can have very different ambitions and concerns depending on which part of space they hail from,’ explains CCP’s Ned Coker. ‘You may have somebody who lives in the galaxy’s outer reaches and, as such, they will have a very different viewpoint to those that live in a more centralised area.’ Likewise, would-be councillors often campaign on specific issues, promising that, should they be elected, they’ll ensure they promote the interests of those who voted for them.
    The run-up to the annual election reflects the way in which political parties work in real life.
    ‘Candidates come with their own platforms, create propaganda and do a lot of mustering both in the game and out in order to get elected,’ says Coker. This year, David Whitelaw, an oil-rig worker from the small town of Thurso on the north coast of Scotland, decided to attempt to interview every candidate in the final ballot for his EVE -themed podcast.
    ‘Candidates loosely fall within three categories,’ he says. ‘There are those who stand on a single issue. Then others who champion a specific play style such as piracy or industry, or who represent a largegroup of alliances. Finally, there are those who propose to act purely as a communication membrane between CCP and the players. Lesser-known players will have to put more hours