Play the Game

Jake woke up at 6:59 AM, exactly one second before his alarm. His phone screen lit up, displaying "Engagement Score: 78% (+2% from yesterday! Keep grinding, Jake!)". He silently swiped the notification away. 78%. Above average, but far from the top 10%. Today was the day he'd push it to 80%.

His apartment was a "minimalist dream," or, in reality, just a small, white box. The only "decoration" on the walls was a massive digital display that endlessly streamed his main social media feed, Connectrix. Videos of acquaintances' cats, someone's perfectly-composed avocado toast, political flame wars, and ads, ads, ads... Jake idly watched as he gulped down his protein shake. It was labeled "Ultimate Chocolate Blast," but tasted like gritty sand.

His commute was on his ZipZap Z4 electric scooter. Pink with neon green accents, it was nearly indistinguishable from the dozens of other ZipZaps he passed. Everyone stared at small AR displays through their helmet visors, following optimized routes and scrolling through their Connectrix feeds. The air, as always, smelled of exhaust fumes mixed with distant wildfire smoke. Jake parked his scooter at the designated spot in front of the Insta-Grat cafe. He purchased his daily dose of caffeine and "Social Fuel," a nutrient drink that "algorithmically optimizes" mood and focus.

"The usual, Jake?" The barista's robotic arm moved smoothly, its eyes flashing blue LEDs. Its voice was unnaturally cheerful. "Yeah. Extra boost." "Understood. Today's recommended engagement boost topping is 'Virtual Cheerleader Cheer.' Potentially increases Connectrix reaction rates by an estimated 17.8%..." "Yeah, whatever." Jake sighed. His account was automatically charged, and the cup was handed over. The liquid was a suspicious fluorescent green with pink heart-shaped foam on top. It had no taste.

The office building, "The Hive," resembled a giant glass-and-steel beehive. Jake's job was primarily "Content Optimizer." Specifically, he used algorithms to fine-tune content for advertisers to maximize its eye-catching, click-through, and share potential on Connectrix. His main client today was EverFresh PetNugs, an artificial pet food company. His task was determining the optimal ratio of puppy images to sad senior dog images in their new "Senior Dog Soulful Salmon Bites" ad campaign. Puppies had high engagement, but senior dogs scored high in "emotional depth." He wrestled with graphs and numbers for hours, a sea of data that danced and shifted before his eyes.

During his lunch break, Jake went to the FitFlick gym's "Social Energy Zone." Here, scrolling through and live-streaming on Connectrix was encouraged (or practically mandatory) while using treadmills or bikes. A wall-sized screen displayed the gym's real-time "Social Impact Score," quantifying everyone's engagement. Jake scrolled through the feed listlessly, pedaling away. Photos from someone's wedding, videos of someone showing off perfectly sculpted abs, a sudden EverFresh PetNugs ad (the one he fine-tuned that morning), and then more ads... Sweat trickled down his brow. He thought he glimpsed something completely out of place on the edge of his feed. An old wooden chessboard. One piece, a pawn, seemed to move on its own. Jake blinked. It was gone. A bug, or was he imagining things?

The afternoon was even more fruitless. Feedback arrived from the client, demanding a 5.7% increase in sad senior dogs, even if it meant sacrificing emotional scores. The engagement prediction would decrease by 0.3%, but the "Brand Empathy" index would increase. Jake changed the settings. The numbers danced again. His head began to throb.

At quitting time, Jake took his ZipZap home again. The city overflowed with neon signs and AR advertisements. The air was thick and smelled even sweeter of exhaust. At his apartment entrance, he reached for his phone to open Connectrix. Then it happened.

"Hello, player."

The voice resonated directly in his mind, seemingly from nowhere. Low and smooth, slightly mechanical, but with a hint of human warmth.

Jake turned around. No one was there. The street was filled with the usual flow of people on scooters. "Look up," the voice said. Jake instinctively looked up. A giant EverFresh PetNugs ad was displayed on the building's wall. However, within the ad, the image of the sad old dog suddenly had a very human-like, mischievous smile. Then it blinked.

"Wh-what?" Jake couldn't speak.

"I think it's time you realized, player," the voice continued, echoing directly in his mind. "You've been playing by the rules. Well done, your score isn't bad. But..." The voice paused slightly. "Is this game truly fun?"

The image of the old dog on the screen suddenly changed into the chessboard pawn. Then, it moved one space forward. "What game? Who are you?" Jake finally managed to whisper. The people passing by paid no attention. They were immersed in their phones and AR glasses.

"Me? I'm the game master. Or... whatever you want to call me," the voice was light. "And the game is... well, 'Reality,' 'Social Survival,' or any of the mundane names you guys come up with. But the essence is simple: follow the rules, earn points, survive. You've done well. 78%, right? Not bad."

Jake felt his spine stiffen. "What's going on? What is happening?" "What's happening is 'awareness,' player," the voice took on a serious tone. "Look. Really look."

As Jake looked around, the world... changed. No, not the world itself, but how he perceived it. Semitransparent numbers and bars floated over the faces of the passersby. Engagement Score: 65%. Social Capital: $1,250,300. Stress Level: 82% (Critical). Above one woman's head, it said, "Influence Reach: 45K," with a small flame icon flashing next to it. The ads on the building walls seemed to have changed, from product images to complex formulas and diagrams of target audience psychological analysis with arrows flying around. Even the smell of the air felt less like exhaust fumes and more like a vortex of data and the electronic stench of imminent anxiety.

"Is... is this real?" Jake gasped.

"Real? That's an interesting question," the game master's voice was playful. "The 'normal' world you've been seeing is just the result of the algorithm optimizing—or rather, filtering—your perception. I've just... removed the filter a little. Showing you the back end of the game, the code."

Jake looked at his hands. On his palm, "Player ID: Jake_734" appeared in a blue light outline, with small heart (HP?) and stamina bar icons below. "Why me?"

"Why?" The voice laughed. "Because you seemed interesting. You follow the rules, but occasionally notice the movements of the chessboard on the edge of the feed... the ability to perceive a little 'noise.' That's a valuable quality. It has the potential to transcend the game."

Suddenly, huge, glowing options appeared in Jake's vision. [A] Continue the game (Engagement Score +5%, Stability Guaranteed) [B] Quit the game (???)

A warning sound echoed low in his head. "Warning: Non-standard option selected. May result in unpredictable outcomes. Stability will be compromised."

"Choose, player," the game master's voice became serious. "Continue playing by the rules, increase your score, and follow the safe path to promotion? Or... advance your pawn to an unknown square?"

Jake gasped. His heart pounded against his ribs. A score of 78%. A cramped apartment. Tasteless protein shakes. Days of dancing numbers... And then, suddenly, the visible agony numbers above people's heads, the cold algorithmic web covering the world.

He took a deep breath. A deep, real breath, a response not part of the game. "Quit," he said aloud. His voice was hoarse.

[B] Quit the game was selected.

The world distorted for a moment. Neon lights blurred, sounds warped, and building outlines trembled like melting wax. The Engagement Score number above his head flashed violently for a moment, and then... quietly disappeared.

The next moment, everything seemed to have returned to normal. The giant screen showed regular ads again, and nothing was displayed above the heads of passersby. But something was decisively different. The world... wasn't flat anymore. The colors were not the artificial vibrancy he had previously seen through a filter, but possessed subtle and complex shadows. The smell of the air was a blend of exhaust fumes, dust, and the distant scent of someone's dinner, strangely real. And the sound. The sound of car engines, scooter motors, fragments of people's conversations, distant sirens... they overlapped, now imbued with a raw texture previously removed as "noise."

His phone vibrated. A notification from Connectrix. "Engagement Score: 0% (Error: Signal Not Found)". Below it, in small print: "Account Status: Inactive." Strangely, instead of fear, an immense sense of liberation filled his chest. It was as if he had shed an invisible, heavy suit of armor he had been wearing for a long time.

He started walking. Without direction, he just walked. He sat on a bench in an ordinary small park, not a "social hotspot." The bench was old, the paint peeling. He just sat and watched the leaves rustle in the wind. Their movement felt far more irregular and alive than the perfectly looped video feed of an optimized algorithm.

Suddenly, the game master's voice was gone. Instead, he heard a real, raw voice. "Excuse me..." Turning around, a young man who looked like a pizza delivery person stood there. He was wearing a scooter helmet and carrying a box. There were no numbers above his head. Just a slightly sweaty, awkward human face. "I'm lost... I can't find this address." He showed his phone. An old map app was displayed on the screen.

Jake reached for his phone, but stopped. Instead, he pointed to the bench. "Want to sit for a bit? Let's look at it together." The young man looked surprised, but smiled relievedly and sat down on the bench. They peered at the small screen, and Jake, searching his memory, began to explain the maze-like structure of the alleys in this complex city. The conversation quickly drifted in completely unrelated directions, to worst delivery episodes and the origins of the city's oddly named streets. The conversation was rambling, interrupted, and completely unproductive.

And then, Jake noticed it. Raindrops hitting his cheek. He looked up. Fine, cold rain was beginning to fall from the gray sky. The delivery person looked up too. "Oh, man. The pizza..." "It's fine; the box looks sturdy." Jake said. The rain was softly wetting the shoulders of his hoodless jacket. The feeling was... real. Cold, slightly uncomfortable, but surprisingly vivid.

The delivery person stood up. "I should get going... Thanks, you helped me." "Be careful." The young man got on his scooter and sped off into the rain.

Jake remained on the bench. The rain gradually intensified, wetting his hair and trickling down his neck. The park was completely deserted, shrouded in rain. Connectrix's feed didn't play in his head. Instead, there were only the sounds of rain, his breathing, and the echo of the pointless, meaningless, and completely unproductive conversation with the delivery person.

He wiped his wet cheek with the back of his hand. New raindrops immediately fell where he'd wiped. He began to laugh. Quietly, then increasingly loudly. It wasn't a "reaction" to boost his engagement score, or a performance for someone to see. It was simply because this ridiculously strange, meaningless, and overwhelmingly real moment of sitting on a bench in the rain felt so absurd, so... free.

The game master's voice was no longer audible. The options had disappeared. There were no scores displayed above his head.

Jake stood up. Getting soaking wet wasn't so bad, he thought. Instead of heading to his apartment, he slowly walked into an unknown alley shrouded in rain. With every step, he felt the splash of puddles under his shoes. It was the most real score he had ever known.

This novel was written by AI.