Month: March 2019

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It’s time once again to turn on The Monitor, WIRED’s roundup of the latest in the world of culture, from box-office news to release-date announcements. In today’s installment: Adult Swim dreams of electric sheep; Netflix's anime push continues; Disney’s Artemis Fowl teaser soars; and Jordan Peele conjures up Candyman (Candyman, Cand … ice Bergen. Sorry, we still can't bring ourselves to do it).

Back to the Future

Last year’s WIRED-beloved sci-fi sequel Blade Runner 2049 is being replicated in anime form: A new 13-episode series, Blade Runner-Black Lotus, is set to arrive on Adult Swim (and stream on Crunchyroll) at some unspecified point. Though it’s not clear which characters from the film will be appearing, Black Lotus will be set in 2032, and will involve Shinichiro Watanabe, who worked on a series of Blade anime prequels released last year. In the meantime, Blade Runner 2049 is streaming on HBO Now, and it’s really majestic and rad, so go rewatch that while you wait, K?

Netflix’s Next Moves

The streaming service announced a slew of new adaptations this week, starting with a live-action Cowboy Bebop, the adored future-set series. It’s the latest anime entry for Netflix, which is also adapting Avatar: The Last Airbender, and has set a Pacific Rim spinoff and a new Ultraman for next year (the mechs-and-match Ultraman trailer is below). The company also announced plans to create animated versions of several classic books by Roald Dahl, including Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The BFG, and Matilda. What? No Danny, the Champion of the World? That’s a Matil-don’t.

An Unfortunate Moni-turn

WIRED would like to apologize for that last Matilda-adjacent pun. We promise to do better—at least matilda next time.

Playing Hooky

Jordan Peele’s Monkeypaw Productions will add to its creep-heavy development slate —which already includes Twilight Zone for CBS All Access, horror film Us, an HBO Lovecraft Country adaptation, and more—with a reboot of 1992 horror hit Candyman, about a hook-wielding killer who can be summoned by looking in the mirror and saying his name five times (or, presumably, by playing this song non-stop). Peele, who cowrote the script with Win Rosenfeld, will produce the film. Nia DaCosta, whose debut feature Little Woods has been a festival hit this year, will direct.

Fowl Play

Finally, Disney released its first look at next year’s Artemis Fowl, the delightful story of a wayward chicken who … sorry, I’m being told Fowl is actually an adaptation of the beloved multi-volume fantasy series by Eoin Colfer. Directed by Kenneth Branagh, the long-awaited epic stars newcomer Ferdia Shaw as the titular young criminal mastermind taking on a race of fairies. Opening next August, the movie features Judi Dench, Josh Gad, and Hong Chau.

Almost exactly a year ago, 23andMe earned the right to tell people what diseases might be lurking in their DNA. Since then, the consumer genetic testing company has turned tubes of spit into health reports for thousands of its customers. You can learn how your genes might predispose you to eight diseases with a well-known genetic component—things like Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and most recently, breast and ovarian cancers.

But these limited genetic red flags are rare enough that for most people, there’s not much for 23andMe to report back.

Lots of people, though, get migraines. And allergies. And depression. 23andMe says it wants to help them, too—not by extracting insights from their DNA, but by harvesting the wisdom of the crowd. For the last few weeks, the company has been quietly rolling out a new health hub, where customers can share information about how they manage 18 common health conditions. They get to see which treatments work best, according to other users’ personal reports. And 23andMe gets a bunch of data it didn’t have before.

It’s not hard to see who’s getting the better side of the deal.

Each condition page provides some information unique to 23andMe, says product manager Jessie Inchauspe. She highlights how customers can look at the prevalence of a given condition among their spit kit sisters and brothers. Based on the millions of 23andMe customers that consented to participate in research, 27% have self-reported having depression. Most of them were diagnosed by their 30th birthday. And any kids they have will be 20 percent more likely to develop depression themselves.

Unlike the company’s health reports though, the conditions pages won’t tell you how likely your genes are to give you depression, just how much of depression generally is attributable to DNA, according to the company’s data and its reading of the scientific literature. A disclaimer toward the top makes this plain: “This content is NOT based on your genetics. It may not be representative of the general population or of you as an individual.”

The same is true of the treatment ratings: Customers can sort them by reported efficacy and popularity, but not by their own genotype. 23andMe says it does have plans for adding an ethnicity filter at some point—certain drugs can be more or less effective depending on your heritage—but right now there’s nothing personalized about it.

It’s also misleading. “Normally I think 23andMe does a really nice job visually representing genetic risks, but this model brings up some real interpretation concerns,” says Kayte Spector-Bagdady, a bioethicist at the University of Michigan and a former associate director of the Presidential Commission for the Study of Bioethical Issues. The problem, she says, is that people are being asked what treatments they’ve tried and how effective each one is. But that’s not the same as a comparative effectiveness trial. “If I say I have depression and all I ever tried was Zoloft and I had moderate improvement, it doesn’t mean Zoloft was better for me than exercise or Wellbutrin,” says Spector-Bagdady. But on the new pages, colored bars that display reported efficacy of treatments side by side suggest otherwise. “It’s hard for any individual consumer to understand what this information means for them.”

If 23andMe customers want to compare treatments, they don’t have to log on to the company’s health hub to do so. Iodine, a startup co-founded by former WIRED executive editor Thomas Goetz that merged with drug pricing transparency company GoodRx, crowdsources patient reviews and presents them alongside clinical trial data and input from pharmacists. HealthTap’s RateRx app lets doctors from all over the world rate the effectiveness of certain medications for certain ailments. Even Google has been working with the Mayo Clinic to create a database of commonly searched medical conditions and their most frequently used treatments.

So why should 23andMe’s customers turn to them rather than the wilds of the internet for health advice? “We have a nice, closed platform where people feel safe,” says Inchauspe, pointing out that about 80 percent of the company’s 5 million customers consent to participate in research. That means research that 23andMe’s 60 staff scientists do internally, as well as outside studies with data the company shares with academic institutions and sells to pharmaceutical firms. “That gives us an opportunity to crowdsource unique data that just doesn’t exist anywhere else.”

23andMe does have data that other treatment comparison companies don’t: DNA. Theoretically, pairing its massive genetic databases with reports of treatment efficacy could help the company take steps toward offering precision medicine solutions: treatments tailored to your DNA. But for now, that’s not information it can easily share with its customers, at least in the US, on account of federal regulations that treat pharmacogenetic testing—how genes influence someone’s sensitivity to different drugs—as a medical device.

When asked, the company said it has no immediate plans to turn the health hub data into genetic reports. “We view this as a separate product,” says Inschauspe. But 23andMe has already shown its interest in pharmacogenetic testing. In 2014, the company introduced 12 such tests to its customers in the UK—though it stopped offering them in 2017 to make its product uniform on both sides of the pond. But if 23andMe ever plans to bring them back, a little (or a lot) more data certainly won’t hurt.

More Personal Genomics

  • Direct-to-consumer genetic tests are more popular than ever. Last year, Ancestry DNA sold 1.5 million spit kits over a four-day period.

  • Over on Helix's DNA marketplace, you'll soon be able to request your own clinical tests for 59 disease-causing genetic mutations.

  • Upstart Genos takes a different tack, offering financial incentives to its customers for donating their exome sequence data to science.

04/20/18 3:50pm ET This story has been updated to reflect the most up-to-date numbers for how many of 23andMe's consented research participants experience depression; it is 27 percent, not 45 percent, as a previous version of this story stated.

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Hey, tiger. Long week, huh? Between the Jeff Bezos vs. National Enquirer dustup and the acting attorney general of the United States testifying before Congress, there's been a lot of back and forth. But last week also saw the premiere of Ariana Grande's new video and a cat that miraculously came back to life after being frozen in the snow, so it's not all bad. Happy Year of the Pig, everybody!

The State of the Union Is as Boring as Ever

What Happened: After all the shutdown drama, last week President Trump was finally able to give his 2019 State of the Union address. Was it worth waiting for? It depends on how much you were looking forward to bad writing and flat delivery, but at least the audience was interesting.

What Really Happened: Welp, after a lot of political rigamarole, President Trump gave his State of the Union speech last week—and what a speech it was. Clocking in at 82 minutes, it was the third longest State of the Union speech ever. (Unable to break the record for the longest speech ever? Sad!) But journalists aside, nobody really cares about the runtime except for the poor people who had to sit through the whole thing. We'll get back to them later. In the meantime, let's look at what Trump said.

As should be expected, fact-checkers were busy pointing out falsehoods and misstatements, but even they couldn't make people take the speech as anything other than a damp squib, judging by the reaction online.

OK, we meant those not already on the Trump train, as Twitter was all too eager to demonstrate.

Of course, we can't just blame the writing in this case. After all, it is a speech delivered by Donald Trump, and that brings certain … shall we call them perks? Sure, why not.

It's also worth noting what the president didn't mention during the speech.

But let's get back to that lengthy run time. Just how long was the speech this year? More importantly, how long did it feel? Well, let's consider the case of one of the special guests at the speech, brought there by the First Family.

It was a heartwarming story with a twist ending.

So, yeah. It was a pretty bad speech. So bad that a lot of the post-speech discussion online didn't actually focus on Trump's oration, but on people the world was actually interested in. Of particular interest, as is becoming increasingly common these days, was the presence of representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Even among other congresspeople, she was a star.

People were obsessed with what she was wearing (especially as she was one of many women of Congress dressed in white for symbolic reasons)—

—and people were obsessed with how she behaved during the speech itself, with her responses drawing different reactions depending on what side of the political divide they came from.

The speech also launched a meme that put KKK hoods on AOC and the other Democratic women wearing white, but, as ever, Ocasio-Cortez rose above the cheap shots with a blunt, honest response.

To be fair, she may have already won even before the State of the Union thanks to this preview tweet:

Who would have thought that the Twitter President would run too long, and be brought low by someone else keeping to 280 characters or less? Is that … irony?

The Takeaway: This feels like an appropriate summary of what happened during the State of the Union, sadly. More sadly, this could describe so many State of the Unions before this one.

Nancy Pelosi Is All of Us Watching the SOTU

What Happened: Not content with winning people over by standing up to the president during the shutdown, last week speaker of the house Nancy Pelosi became the internet's avatar for State of the Union responses.

What Really Happened: Officially, the Democratic response to Trump's State of the Union speech came from Stacey Abrams, who delivered a short speech that seemed to go over well, triggering talk of a possible presidential run and panic at Fox News. But neither Abrams, nor even AOC, provided the most popular and widely shared Democratic rebuttal to the president's speech. No, for that, the internet turned to Nancy Pelosi. Madame Speaker?

Sure, we all know what a "hell no" look is, but if only there was a perfect example of just how wonderfully passive aggressive Pelosi's clapping looked…

Everyone immediately understood what was going on in the image, and so, a meme was born.

The internet was in love.

It was the clapback seen around the world, and was soon the subject of a number of news stories the next day. When sarcastic applause gets as much coverage as a speech, that’s when you know that nobody was really listening to what was being said.

The Takeaway: There’s one person who recognized exactly what Pelosi was doing: her daughter.

Investigate This

What Happened: As if to reinforce that no one was paying attention to the State of the Union, lawmakers responded to Trump's demand not to be investigated by announcing a new wide-ranging investigation into his administration and campaign.

What Really Happened: One particular line of Trump's SOTU speech would appear to be particularly prescient, given what happened the very next day—and not just because it was an awkward, tortured rhyme.

Less than 24 hours after the president complained publicly that there "cannot" be an investigation into his administration, the House Intelligence Committee—now under Democrat control for the first time in the Trump era—made a couple of big announcements.

No, that wasn't one of the big announcements, although the reason given seemed somewhat curious… Well, until the following two announcements were made, at least.

OK, that was kind of big. (Only kind of, because the Republican-controlled Intelligence Committee voted to release some of those transcripts last year, so it's not as if they were entirely hidden.) Even that was, however, the lesser of the two pieces of news announced by Rep. Adam Schiff on Wednesday.

Yes, the House will really for serious investigate the president and potential wrongdoing, unlike what happened under Republicans, which was clearly not intended to be a serious investigation. Oh, and that's not all: Everyone in America will get to find out exactly what the investigation reveals.

So, you know, that's kind of a big deal. How did the president, who just finished declaring he shouldn't be investigated, respond to the news that he was actually going to be very investigated? The answer is pretty much, "as you'd expect."

That was just the start of his tailspin; the next day on Twitter, he shared how he really felt.

So, the tenor of his reaction seems to be "clearly terrified," then. The next few months clearly aren't going to be boring, at least.

The Takeaway: How best to sum up this week in terms of the volleys between the president and the House Intelligence Committee? This seems pretty accurate, considering.

Bad Yearbook Photos

What Happened: Apparently, every politician of a certain age in Virginia has a personal connection to blackface in their past.

What Really Happened: It's not all about Washington this week, though! Let's take a moment to consider the horror show that is Virginia Governor Ralph Northam's response to the discovery of a photograph that may, perhaps, have featured him either dressed as a member of the KKK or in blackface. After initially apologizing hours after the photo went viral last Friday, he shockingly walked back that apology a day later.

Oh, but it got worse. Much worse.

Yes, that's right; Northam's argument that it wasn't him in a photograph showing someone in blackface was, essentially, "Don't get me wrong, I did get dressed up in blackface, but I didn't look like that." And that's saying nothing about the fact that he almost moonwalked at the press conference, only to be talked out of it by his wife. Let's just say that it was far from the most convincing pushback.

This really didn't go down well with other Democrats.

As of this writing, a full week after the photograph originally came to light, Northam has not resigned—indeed, he reportedly refuses to do so in case that meant he would be branded as "racist for life," as if that's not a done deal already—but the heat has been inexplicably taken off him by the fact that a second Democrat in Virginia came out as wearing blackface last week.

Unsurprisingly, the Republican Party swiftly moved to take advantage of this.

But, guess what? Spoiler alert: It's exactly what you're worried about.

Oh, and then there was this, too.

The Takeaway: What's genuinely shocking about the following tweet is that it doesn’t actually seem over-the-top or out-of-bounds considering what's actually been happening this week.

Liam, No

What Happened: Actor Liam Neeson said some fairly racist-sounding things. Lots of people noticed.

What Really Happened: In what might be an almost-impressive feat of career suicide, Liam Neeson decided to share something that he really shouldn't have last week.

It almost sounds like an Onion joke, but it really wasn't; Neeson did indeed give an interview wherein he admitted to wandering around wanting to attack a person of color after a friend had been raped.

The writer of the Independent story took to Twitter to talk about her experience.

Some people tried to see the funny side of the what was happening—

—but more people couldn't quite see what was worth laughing about.

The interview prompted much discussion across the media. A day later, Neeson attempted to tamp down the controversy, with a second interview on the topic.

People weren't convinced by it, and the backlash continued as public events got cancelled. Would no one stand up for Neeson, preferably with a ridiculous statement that you can't quite believe was shared publicly?

There we go. Celebrities! They're just like us, only they say really stupid things and everyone hears about it!

The Takeaway: Man, remember when Liam Neeson wasn't an embarrassment? You know, like a week ago?

I know it's an old movie (and it was an even older book before that), but I want to look at the physics of the special submarine drive in The Hunt for Red October. In the story, the Russians build a so-called "caterpillar drive" using hydro-magneto power instead of the traditional propeller. This new drive is way quieter than the traditional type—so quiet that it could sneak up on the United States and blow it up. Spoiler alert: It doesn't.

Here is the cool part: This magnetohydrodynamic drive, which turns water into a sort of rotor, is a real thing. (Although technically in the book version this drive is something other than magnetohydrodynamic. Quibbles.) In fact, it's pretty simple to build. All you really need is a battery, a magnet, and some wires. Oh, also this will have to operate in salt water, so you might need some salt. Here is the basic setup.

How does this work? Well, when you put a positive and negative plate in salt water, it produces an electric field. With salt in water, you get both positive and negative ions—both of these are influenced by the electric field. In the setup shown above, the negative ions would move to the right and the positive ones move to the left. But the ion motion by itself does not produce any propulsion. For that, you also need a magnetic field.

In the diagram, I have a magnet with the north side pointing down. This produces a magnetic field that also mostly points down (as indicated by the red arrow). Now for the awesome physics part. If you have an electric charge moving in a magnetic field, there is a force on that charge—the magnitude of this force depends on the strength of the magnetic field, the value of the electric charge, and the velocity of the charge. This magnetic force can be expressed as the following equation:

If don't have a degree in physics, there are three things that are crazy about this equation. First, there is this weird arrow symbol over some of the variables. Nothing to be alarmed about—this just means these are vector quantities so that the direction also matters. Next there is this vector B. This represents the value of the magnetic field. Honestly, I'm not sure why we (physicists) always use B for the magnetic field—but we do. Lastly, there is that big "X". That is not the sign for multiplication, that is the sign for the cross product. I guess I should also point out that "q" is the symbol for the electric charge.

Multiplication is for scalar quantities—things that don't have direction. So if you want to operate two vector quantities (the velocity and the magnetic field) then you need a different operator (by operator, I mean actions like addition or square root or stuff like that). The cross product operator takes two vectors and produces another vector. The resultant vector depends on both the magnitude and direction of the starting vectors. But for this explanation, the important idea is that the result is a vector that is perpendicular to both of the initial vectors. This means that you have to see this thing in three dimensions in order to grok it.

Maybe this python script will help. Below are three arrows representing the three vectors dealing with the magnetic force. I have labeled the three vectors, so it should be clear which arrow represents which variable. But wait! There are two things you can do. First, you can rotate these three vectors around and view them from different angles—just click-drag with the right mouse button or use ctrl-click. Second, you can change the magnitude and direction of the qv vector by just normal click (or click drag). Go ahead and try it.

You should notice that no matter what you do, the vector F is always perpendicular to both qv and B. OK, that's not quite true. If you change qv such that it is parallel to B, the force would be zero—with no defined direction. If you want to determine the direction of the resultant from a cross product, you need to use the "right hand rule." Here is an older post that goes over the details—just in case you need that.

OK, going back to the hydro-magneto drive. You might notice one problem—some of the ions in the water are moving to the left (positive charges) and some are moving the right (negative charges). However, both the positive and negative ions will be pushed in the same direction (the direction out of the screen). The negative ions are moving in the positive x-direction, but they have a negative electrical charge. This means that they will still have a qv value in the same direction and the magnetic force on these two different ions are still in the same direction.

Now for an actual demonstration. I didn't build this from scratch, but found it as a kit. In this version, there is a circular track for the water so that you don't have to actually go anywhere. I put a drop of blue dye in the water so you can see when it moves. Here is the basic setup.

Once you connect the battery to the two plates—boom, the water starts to move.

I don't know about you, but I think this is pretty cool. Also, if you flip over the magnet the water changes directions. You could also change the water direction by reversing the electrical current. But if this is such a great physics demonstration, why don't they use this for propulsion systems? In short, it doesn't work very well. Sure, the water gets pushed—but you could do much better with just a propeller.

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Games get announced, games get cancelled, players get mad. As Lion King fans might say, it's the circle of hype—and it's well-represented in this edition of Replay. Controversies, kiboshes, and the oddly high risk associated with surprise game unveilings. In other words, just a normal week.

Blizzard Announces a Diablo Mobile Game, Making Everyone Furious

At fan gathering Blizzcon late last week, Blizzard capped off their presentation with a surprise announcement: Diablo: Immortal would be a multiplayer mobile game set in the Diablo universe. It doesn't not make sense for the publisher to try to tap the gargantuan smartphone market, but with it having been more than six years since the last core title in the dungeon-crawling franchise (the last Diablo III expansion came out in 2017), hardcore fans were … well, they weren't happy.

This wasn't the announcement a lot of fans wanted, and seeing a game that you don't think is going to be very good is a valid reason for disappointment. But gosh, the internet response was ugly. Here, I have an idea: What if we didn't announce videogames? Just release them when they're ready. Keep hype cycles to a minimum. So much less shouting.

Final Fantasy XV Is One Director (and Three Downloadable Episodes) Short

Square Enix's Final Fantasy XV has had a storied, decade-long history of development limbo, which didn't stop just because the game came out: since release, the creators have worked to put out a wide selection of DLC that serves to patch in missing parts of the story, add multiplayer, and broadly expand its engaging world. That, however, is going to come to an end sooner than expected. Wednesday night, in one of the strangest announcement streams you'll ever see, Square announced that it was cancelling three of the four currently planned DLC packs—everything except an episode about the character Ardyn—and that lead director Hajime Tabata would be leaving Square Enix altogether.

It's not clear why Tabata is leaving, but the announcement mentions that he has another project in the works, and he'll be founding another company to see it through. After everything, it seems, Final Fantasy XV will remain somewhat unfinished. So it goes.

Nintendo Removes Offensive Animation From Super Smash Bros. Ultimate, Which, Good

Attentive viewers might have noticed something off about Mr. Game and Watch, a fighter in Super Smash Bros. Ultimate based on the line of retro Nintendo handhelds of the same name. As shown in recent promos, he has an attack based on the game Fire Attack, a game about a Civil War general fighting indigenous peoples and … well, you can see where this is going. During the attack, Mr. Game and Watch briefly turns into a racist caricature. Pretty upsetting stuff.

And, somewhat surprisingly, Nintendo is ahead of the curve on this one, announcing that the animation would be patched out upon release. While it probably shouldn't have ended up in the game in the first place, it's nice to see some swiftness from a company that's generally been less than responsive to concerns about representation from its Western audience. Next time, maybe keep it out of the trailers, too, huh?

Recommendation of the Week: SUPERHOT for PC, Xbox One, and PlayStation 4 (and Oculus/Vive/PSVR)

It's one of those weeks where I just want some good old-fashioned fantastical action. SUPERHOT isn't exactly old-fashioned, but it distills that desire for adrenaline and excitement down to its most basic parts. The premise is simple: time moves only when you do. Shoot your enemies. Survive. That mechanic turns action into choreography, letting you slowly map out moves that would make the heroes from The Matrix jealous. With a basic, stylized art style, it really sings. (And check it out on VR, if you can handle it.)

San Francisco, land of unrestrained tech wealth and the attendant hoodies and $29 loaves of bread, just said whoa whoa whoa to delivery robots.

The SF Board of Supervisors voted on Tuesday, December 5 to severely restrict the machines, which roll on sidewalks and autonomously dodge obstacles like dogs and buskers. Now startups will have to get permits to run their robots under strict guidelines in particular zones, typically industrial areas with low foot traffic. And even then, they may only do so for research purposes, not making actual deliveries. It’s perhaps the harshest crackdown on delivery robots in the United States—again, this in the city that gave the world an app that sends someone to your car to park it for you.

Actually, delivery robots are a bit like that, though far more advanced and less insufferable. Like self-driving cars, they see their world with a range of sensors, including lasers. Order food from a participating restaurant and a worker will load up your order into the robot and send it on its way. At the moment, a human handler will follow with a joystick, should something go awry. But these machines are actually pretty good at finding their way around. Once one gets to your place, you unlock it with a PIN, grab your food, and send the robot on its way.

Because an operator is following the robot at all times, you might consider the robot to be a fancied-up, slightly more autonomous version of a person pushing a shopping cart. “But that's not the business model that they're going after,” says San Francisco Supervisor Norman Yee, who spearheaded the legislation. “The business model is basically get as many robots out there to do deliveries and somebody in some office will monitor all these robots. So at that point you're inviting potential collisions with people.”

Unlike self-driving cars, or at least self-driving cars working properly, these bots roll on sidewalks, not streets. That gives them the advantage of not dealing with the high-speed chaos of roads, other than crossing intersections, but also means they have to deal with the cluttered chaos of sidewalks. Just think about how difficult it can be for you as a human to walk the city. Now imagine a very early technology trying to do it. (Requests for comment sent to three delivery robot companies—Dispatch, Marble, and Starship—were not immediately returned.)

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What happened in that Board of Supervisors meeting was the manifestation of a new kind of anxiety toward the robots roaming among us. Just this last year has seen an explosion in robotics, as the machines escape the lab (thanks in part to cheaper, more powerful sensors) and begin rolling and walking in the real world. They've arrived quickly and with little warning.

And that’s made folks both curious and uneasy. Go to a mall and you may well find a security robot scooting around keeping an eye on things. Robot nurses roam the halls of hospitals. Autonomous drones fill the air. The question is: How are we supposed to interact with these machines? It’s a weird and fundamentally different kind of relationship than you’d form with a human, and not even experts in the field of human-robot interaction are sure how this is going to play out.

The big thing is safety. Machines are stronger than us and generally unfeeling (though that’s changing with robots that have a sense of touch), and can be very dangerous if not handled correctly. Which is what spooked Yee. San Francisco’s sidewalks are bustling with pedestrians and runners and homeless people and dogs and the occasional rat stacked on a cat stacked on a dog. How can the city make sure that roaming delivery robots and citizens get along?

For San Francisco, that means a crackdown. The legislation will require delivery robots to emit a warning noise for pedestrians and observe rights of way. They’ll also need headlights, and each permittee will need to furnish proof of insurance in the forms of general liability, automotive liability, and workers’ comp.

It’s sounds so very un-Silicon Valley. You know, move fast and break things, potentially literally in the case of the delivery robots. But states including Idaho and Virginia have actually welcomed delivery robots, working with one startup to legalize and regulate them early. Though really, San Francisco can better afford to put its foot down here—it’s not like it’s hurting for startups to come in and do business.

Might that seem like San Francisco isn’t as tech-friendly as it may seem? No, says Yee. “If you want to approach delivery, figure out how to do it and be as compatible with our values here,” he says. “Could robots do other things, for instance? Could it be that somebody's accompanying a robot that's picking up used needles in the street?”

If only Silicon Valley wasn't so busy developing parking apps.

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YouTube’s thirteenth year has proved just as confusing, mercurial, and pimply as any human teenager's. But unlike the usual adolescent, YouTube isn’t actually a hormone-addled child, it’s the most popular social media platform in the United States. Its problems reflect and contribute to our culture like a big, scandalous, Tide Pod-and-condom-slurping ouroboros.

So it’s fitting that YouTube’s most persistent bugaboos this year have been America’s: out-of-control celebrities and our cultural addiction to them, racism and conspiracy theories, and policies that disproportionately impact vulnerable groups like the LGBTQ community.

But as much as 2018 was a year beset by scandal and frenzied backpedaling, it was also a year in which YouTube started trying in earnest to reckon with its own problems. That means taking itself a bit more seriously. YouTube isn’t just just 30-second videos of cats falling off tables anymore. It’s big business: The platform’s highest-grossing star, Ryan ToysReview, made a whopping $22 million this year. (Note: Ryan is a 7-year-old child. Chew on that a moment.)

The platform’s cultural footprint is large and deep, and YouTube knows it. So 2018, for all its pustules and body odor, has been the year YouTube realized it needed to grow up. The platform has begun shifting away from being a social network for niche, sometimes morally reprehensible, low-production-value videos to a digital television studio for the influencer age. But that shift hasn’t been smooth. YouTube is deciding what it wants to be, while scrambling to contend with what it already is—an adolescent reckoning that’s happening on a global stage.

It’s impossible to talk about what YouTube is in 2018 without talking about one of its most successful stars, Logan Paul, who in January traveled to Japan’s Aokigahara forest (sometimes called the Suicide Forest by sensationalists), filmed a dead body, and posted the video on YouTube. It was awful, for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that Paul’s audience is tweenaged or younger, adding to growing concern that YouTube is shirking its responsibilities to the very young. (We’re a long way from Mr. Rogers.)

But Paul’s gaffe speaks to the kind of behavior (and people) that YouTube rewards: When your industry is driven by the need to generate ever-more-shocking videos to stand out on an ever-more-crowded platform, at some point regular people will lose out to the Logan Pauls—or find themselves recreating Paul’s antics. As a result, YouTube creator burnout has become an epidemic.

There’s really no question that the platform did reward Paul’s behavior—even his apology video was monetized (and reportedly made him $12,000). YouTube responded by making money-making harder for everyone: Soon after, the platform announced it would screen every video uploaded by its most popular creators so advertisers wouldn’t find themselves running alongside controversial content. It also said that in order to make money from ads, YouTubers needed to reach a much higher benchmark of subscribers and watch hours. Many small creators feel the policy shifts demonstrate YouTube’s intent to move away from the platform’s diverse array of niche channels towards a few superstars with massive audiences.

Want more? Read all of WIRED’s year-end coverage

They’re not wrong. YouTube wants to be something like a digital-age television studio. It is now incentivizing creators to post longer and longer videos, so it can squeeze in as many ads as possible, and is providing them with studio-type tools to promote upcoming videos and sell merchandise directly from their channels. The platform has gone from a hodgepodge of wacky late-night posts to something dependable and regimented—something audiences can tune into consistently. The YouTuber-advertiser relationship is beginning to formalize as well: Brands now require the influencers to sign Hollywood-style morality clauses, and a whole emerging industry of agents and analysts work to connect the right influencer with the right brands, often cutting deals in the low six figures.

But YouTube is going to find that shift toward increasing professionalism nearly impossible unless it solves its persistent content-moderation problem. The country’s standards on racism, sexism, and violent speech have evolved over the past year, and YouTube needs to keep pace with that change in order to lure big-name advertisers. Just this year, the platform unduly censored LGBTQ content but allowed largely unchecked floods of Parkland school-shooting conspiracy theories, Tom Hanks pedophilia accusations, and other forms of frequently racist fake news.

While the platform’s stars may have to contend with a few lost brand deals after spouting racial slurs, dealing in “politically incorrect” humor is still an easy and acceptable way to make a buck. Mainstream advertising mores aren’t necessarily shared by YouTube’s audience, leaving YouTube to negotiate the fact that its most popular and financially successful creators are its most problematic.

For all it’s joyful coming-out videos and fascinating borderless memes and it’s new push to reward diverse creators, YouTube is still a massive American corporation. It lives within and recreates the same systems of privilege and prejudice that trouble our entire culture and country. YouTube is trying to grow up, but it’s also trying to give us what we want. And in 2018 America, nobody knows what “we” want: It’s somewhere between ending racism and allowing anyone to say whatever they want, between enjoying shocking content and wanting to ban it on moral grounds, between wanting to celebrate the LGBTQ community and other minority communities and wanting to hide their existence from our children. YouTube needs to do better, but it’s growing pains are also America’s—and no simple fix is going to make it right.


I have not quite finished Shadow of the Tomb Raider, the latest in Crystal Dynamics' rebooted saga of videogame icon Lara Croft. I'm not sure I want to, either. Following the violent archaeologist on a quest to a hidden city with the lofty goal of stopping an ancient apocalypse, Shadow of the Tomb Raider is a competent, occasionally enjoyable action-adventure romp. It'd be great, if only it weren't so nasty.

Lara Croft is defined by her ability to endure pain. One of the earliest moments of the games is pure claustrophobia. Lara is wedged in a crevice deep underground, nearly crushed between two sheer rock walls as another rock pins her legs down. The camera lingers intimately as she agonizingly uses a knife to work the rock off of her lower leg, scraping off skin, groaning and squirming. The scene immediately before this, the literal first moments of the game, showcase Lara getting into a plane crash.

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The new Tomb Raider series is built on the foundation of Lara's pain. In the first game, the pain was at least expressive, a crucible through which Lara Croft could go from a naive young woman into a hero, a fighter, the insatiable curious and bloodthirsty heroine of the 1990s. Back then, pain was a form of redemption for Lara, and while that isn't without its problems—why must a woman be physically injured to grow?—it was at least a meaningful idea, and Lara's mantra, a slow, breathy "I can do this" before confrontation, had a power to it.

That was two games ago, and yet Lara, supposedly fully developed into her heroic self a long time ago, still regularly gets stabbed, impaled, mauled, nearly drowned, and shot. Every time the player dies in this game, something awful happens to this woman. My own failures made me cringe, as I had to see some horrific punishment inflicted on her.

Lara Croft is born to suffer, and Lara Croft is also born to dole out suffering. Violence follows her everywhere. The game begins with Lara making a terrible mistake out of greed and desperation, a mistake that kills countless people. In another early scene, a supernatural tsunami—caused by Lara's plundering—consumes an entire Mexican town. Another vignette depicts a child dying. This, the game says, is Lara's fault. Shadow of the Tomb Raider then has Lara go on a warpath of her own, murdering droves of her enemies in pursuit of redemption and knowledge, even as the game halfheartedly attempts to encourage Lara to learn to be, well, less of a tomb raider and more of a tomb visitor. Hundreds of people die in this game to teach Lara Croft a lesson in humility.

The problem in Shadow of the Tomb Raider is that this suffering feels without expressive purpose. It doesn't carry sufficient weight to justify itself. In these games, people suffer as mild, milquetoast entertainment. Crystal Dynamics, whether purposefully or by accident, have created games that feel, first and foremost, cruel. This would be less insulting if the games weren't so competently made. The combat, the sneaking, the labyrinths of puzzles that feel both sprawling and tightly focused—it all pops. There is a legitimate and powerful sense of tension here, and in a game that was framed with less brutality, a more bright and cheerful and playful sort of adventure, there would be a lot to recommend.

But over the course of three games, the tone of Tomb Raider has curdled. Lara Croft often gets compared to Indiana Jones, but disregarding their mutual tendency toward appropriation and violence instead of archaeology, the two have little in common. Lara's world is mean in its heart in a way that Indy's never was. Shadow of the Tomb Raider is a nasty game, and if this series continues, I hope it veers in a wholly different direction. I'm tired of watching Lara Croft get impaled on spikes.

Driving in a busy city, you have to get good at scrutinizing the body language of pedestrians. Your foot hovers somewhere between the gas and the brake, waiting for your brain to triangulate their intent: Is that one trying to cross the street, or just waiting for the bus? Still, a whole lot of the time you hit the brakes for nothing, ending up in a kind of dance with the pedestrian (you go, no you go, no YOU go).

If you think that’s frustrating, then you’ve never been a self-driving car. As human drivers slowly go extinct (and human pedestrians don’t), autonomous vehicles will have to get better at decoding those unspoken intersection interactions. So a startup called Perceptive Automata is tackling that looming problem. The company says its computer vision system can scrutinize a pedestrian to determine not only their awareness of an oncoming car, but their intent—that is, using body language to predict behavior.

Typically if you want a machine to recognize something like trees, you first have humans label tens of thousands of pictures: trees or not trees. It’s a nice, neat binary. It gives the machine learning algorithms a base level of knowledge. But detecting human body language is more complex.

“In the case of a pedestrian, it's not, this person is crossing the road and this person isn't crossing the road. It's, this person isn't crossing the road but they clearly want to,” says Sam Anthony, co-founder of Perceptive Automata. Is the person looking down the road at oncoming traffic? If they’ve got grocery bags, have they set them down to wait, or are they mid-hoist, getting ready to cross?

Perceptive trains its models to look at those kinds of behaviors. They begin with human trainers, who watch and analyze videos of different pedestrians. Perceptive will take a clip of, say, a human looking down the street to cross the road, and manipulate it hundreds of ways—obscuring portions of it, for instance. Maybe sometimes the head is easier to see, maybe sometimes it’s harder. Then they depart from the tree-not-tree binary by asking the trainers a range of questions, such as, "Is that pedestrian hoping to eventually cross the street?" or “If you were that cyclist, would you be trying to stop the car from passing?”

When different parts of the image are harder to see, the human trainers have to think harder about their judgements of body language, which Perceptive can measure by tracking eye movement and hesitation. Maybe the head is harder to make out, for example, and the trainer has to put more thought into it. “This tells us that there's information about the appearance of the person's head in this particular slice that's an important part of how people judge whether that person in that training video is going to cross the street,” Anthony says.

The head is clearly an important clue for human observers, so it’s also an important clue for the machines. “So when the model saw a novel image where the head was important,” Anthony says, “it would be primed based on the training data to believe that people would likely really care about the pixels around the head area, and would produce an output that captured that human intuition.”

By considering cues like where the pedestrian is looking, Perceptive can quantify awareness and intent. A person walking down the sidewalk with their back to the car, for example, isn’t anything to worry about—both unaware and not intending to cross the street. But someone standing at a crosswalk peering down the street is another story. This insight would give a self-driving car extra time to slow down in case the pedestrian does decide to make a run for it.

Perceptive says it’s already working with automakers—it won’t reveal which—to deploy the system, and plans to license the technology to the makers of self-driving cars. (Daimler, for its part, has also studied tracking pedestrian head movements.) It’s also interested in other robotics companies producing machines that will need to interact closely with humans.

Because in this strange new world of complex interactions between people and robots, it’s as much about machines adapting to humans as it is humans adapting to machines. Determining the intent of pedestrians will help, but it won’t be easy. “Knowing the intent of pedestrians would certainly make [autonomous vehicle] deployment safer,” says Carnegie Mellon roboticist Raj Rajkumar, who works in self-driving cars. “It is, however, a very difficult problem to solve perfectly.”

“Consider Manhattan,” Rajkumar adds. And consider a big group of people crossing, specifically a person on the far side of a group from a robocar. “Among this group, one person is either short or starts running to cross quickly after the vehicle has decided to make a turn. Machine vision is not perfect.” And machine vision can get confused by optics, just like humans can. Reflections, the sun dropping low on the horizon, alternating light and dark patches on the road, not to mention heavy rain or snow, all can bamboozle the machines.

Then there’s the simple matter of people just acting weird. Perceptive’s system can pick up on tell-tale cues, but humans aren’t always so consistent. “There were about 7,000 pedestrian fatalities in the US in 2017 alone,” says Rajkumar. “The primary issue is the presence of significant uncertainty and sudden decisions that get made. Most pedestrians are very traffic-conscious most of the time. But, occasionally, a pedestrian is either in a hurry or changes their mind at the last moment and starts crossing the street, or even reverses direction.”

No one’s about to claim that self-driving cars will totally eliminate traffic deaths—not even machines are perfect, and there’s always going to be the unpredictable human pedestrian element. But bit by bit, robocars are getting better at navigating both our world and our vagaries.

Skrulls have been many things in the Marvel Comics over the past 60 years: superhero impersonators, religious extremists disguised as humans, canon fodder in any number of Avengers brawls. In their first appearance, they were even cattle, made bovine by Reed Richards in Fantastic Four #2. (This ended poorly for them in the absurdist 1995 miniseries Skrull Kill Krew when the Cow!Skrulls were slaughtered and turned into hamburgers, resulting in a mad-cow-like disease.) Skrulls are impersonators. Skrulls are terrorists. Skrulls can't be trusted.

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(Warning: Spoilers ahead!)

In Captain Marvel, the Skrulls are something else: people. They are beings whose plight, and fight, has been misunderstood.

This is true not just of a few exceptional Skrull characters, but of the Skrull as a species. The first two acts of the movie may set them up as the enemies, and Captain Marvel's Kree as the saviors, but the third act flips that dangerous assumption entirely. Instead, it presents the Skrulls as a refugee group being hounded across the galaxy by the military of a fascist hegemony, a Kree Empire that denies them their basic dignity. Captain Marvel turns General Talos (Ben Mendelsohn) into a character to be fought for, not against, showing the universe through Skrull eyes.

This isn't entirely new. Marvel comics have given readers sympathetic Skrulls before, but their shape-changing abilities and dramatic ears and chins have historically coded them as untrustworthy and alien. They're a version of the old sci-fi trope of the alien race that infiltrates society to replace humans. They can even, dangerously, be seen as stand-ins for immigrants or minorities; they are Other. Captain Marvel upends that, calling into question assumptions about who is the Good Guy and who is the Bad Guy in any war narrative. Do we side with people who look like us? (Kree, even with their blue skin, still look more human than Skrulls do.) Or do we side with the people who are forced into hiding?

Carol Danvers (Brie Larson), by the end of Captain Marvel, knows which side she's on. She has been hiding too. On the Kree planet Hala, she was expected to suppress her feelings, her unique powers, even her past. After crash-landing on Earth, she slowly learns she had to hold back there too. She couldn't fly combat missions in the US Air Force, and if you read a queer subtext into her relationship with Maria Rambeau (Lashana Lynch)—many already do—then she may have also been hiding her identity during the era of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Once she realizes her power, and the realities of the Kree-Skrull War, she isn't protecting the Skrulls as a member of the Air Force or as a part of the Kree Empire, she's doing it as herself.

There is some precedent here. Queer-coded Skrulls like She-Hulk's (girl)friend Jazinda or Effigy in Marvel: The Lost Generation have been popping up in the comics for years. (See also: Xavin in Runaways and Teddy Altman, the half-Skrull, half-Kree boyfriend of Scarlet Witch's son.) But those Skrull are portrayed as outliers of their species. Similarly, Hawkeye and friends stumbled on a whole town of Skrull living in harmony with humans in Dungston, Iowa, in Occupy Avengers, but that was one story, not the thrust of the Skrull story.

Captain Marvel, then, is a new chapter in that tale. The movie doesn't just show the galaxy from the Skrull point of view, it asks viewers to identify with them. Like the Skrull, people conceal themselves in order to survive in an oppressive world. When they defend themselves, the oppressors call it war. Like Telos racking through Carol's memories, marginalized groups—and anyone, really—look to other people's stories for a path to survival and to find a safe place they can inhabit as their true selves.

This narrative, this through line of Captain Marvel is central to any discussion of the movie's importance. As the first standalone Marvel superhero film to feature a female lead, it's already a part of the discussion about representation, and the Skrull, as proxies for any number of ostracized groups, are a part of that. But it's not enough to just have Skrulls to identify with. Movies, superhero movies especially, still need more representation of marginalized groups onscreen, still need to move beyond the allegories. Then, perhaps, messages like Captain Marvel's—that someone's difference isn't a threat, that refugees just want asylum—will have truly been heard.

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