Online, it's us or them

Online, it's us or them

I HAVE been hugely entertained by the way the Wikipedia project's dirty laundry has been hung out for all to see. For example, Adam Curry, the would-be "father" of podcasting (for success has many parents, while failure is an orphan) has been caught in the act of anonymously, um, "adjusting" the Wikipedia page on the topic, boosting his apparent role in its spread.

Meanwhile, someone else had created an enormously libellous page about John Seigenthaler, a 78-year-old former editor of The Tennessean in Nashville, falsely suggesting he had some role in the assassination of John F. Kennedy. The Norwegian Prime Minister, Jens Stoltenberg, didn't have much cause, either, to thank the online site, where he was - again falsely - labelled a pedophile.

That has led to a furious period of navel-gazing at the site, with people arguing about whether things should be deleted or kept, and whether anonymous editing is a good idea, or whether pseudononymous editing is OK.


This started me wondering about the intensity of the argument that goes on at similar projects online. Scratch an issue, and you'll find those who are so pro and anti, it's scary.

Pick a topic, any topic: the usefulness of Wikipedia; intelligent design; whether free open source development is better for developing software than the closed, paid-for method; whether Scientology should be classed as a cult, religion or stunningly expensive hobby. And don't even get me started on what happens when you criticise something that Apple Computer makes. On all sides you will find people who are willing to argue to the death.

What I realised - perhaps it was the mention of Scientology - is that Wikipedia, and so many other online activities, show all the outward characteristics of a cult. There is a quasi-

religious fervour surrounding the "rightness" of Wikipedia, or Apple's products. To outsiders, it makes little or no sense. To those inside, it is the most important topic they can imagine.

Why should that be? The point about the internet was always that it reduced geographical distance to zero, so that the world (or the online bit) was only centimetres from your nose. Now, any cult organiser will tell you that the hardest part about building your group is getting recruits. If the people don't have to cross a street, but just a screen, it is much easier.

And online cults can grow themselves, building their story from the internet's ability to generate its own folklore. There's no need for an L.Ron Hubbard to create the backstory, as there was with Scientology. The cult's members write its "truth", and defend it to the very last gasp of their keyboard.

They also use the most charming of debating techniques, which is to allow you to make a long list of salient points and pull in a wide range of empirical observations to back up your argument, and then ignore them completely. Then they respond with something along the lines of "Are you being paid to say that by Microsoft, or just doing a mate a favour?" (to quote one email received this week on the topic of open source software development).

As I said, the cult of cultism isn't only happening at Wikipedia. (And I'm certainly not comparing Jimmy Wales, who set up Wikipedia with the most honorable intentions, to Hubbard's science-fiction grow-your-own "religion".) It's visible all over the net.

And don't think I'm knocking participation online. I'm not. Getting involved is an excellent idea, in whatever project takes your fancy; and it has never been easier. Being a passive consumer is stultifying, and I wouldn't give up the past 10 years of online development for anything.

But it's always worth asking yourself, before launching into the 124th flame of the evening for someone who has dared to question the rightness of your pet project, whether the other side might, for once, be right in their criticism. It is a radical idea, I know. But that's the only way cult thinking gets broken down. Personally, I'm all for it.

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