Leveling Up

Introduction

Most research on virtual worlds and games has been done by Western academics on majority Western populations. In this article, I argue that these limitations have led to a real/virtual problematic that struggles to account for ethical behavior among Chinese gamers, who have an alternative cosmology of the virtual that can be traced to Confucian philosophical roots. Looking at players of the Chinese game Zhengtu, we see how gamers construct an ethical selfhood that is coterminous with their actual world self, using the game not as an alternative reality but as a “crucible for the heart.” Finally, we see how this construction of ethical selfhood is related to neoliberal subjectification in modern China.

First, I trace the “transcendent/immanent problematic” through previous work on virtual worlds. Although theorists have rarely agreed about the nature of the divide between the virtual and the real, the issue has been a continuous theme, problem, or assumption through most studies of the virtual (a “problematic”). I argue that this problematic has its roots in a long-standing philosophical distinction between the transcendent and the immanent. Because we have seen almost all Western theorists studying Western gamers, these assumptions about the ontology of virtual worlds have not been properly examined. In this article, I offer an alternative perspective, using a Confucian cosmology to conceptualize virtual worlds, and studying a population of Chinese gamers.

More specifically, I argue that ontological assumptions about the real and the virtual have influenced theories of ethics in games and virtual worlds such that they cannot account for ethical judgments among Chinese gamers. Theories of ethical behavior in virtual worlds often rely on a “Magic Circle” distinction between the game and the real world. In Magic Circle ethics, the game and the real world have distinct ethical systems that define what is permissible in the game as opposed to the real world, and the greatest violation is to break the boundary between the worlds, thus ruining the game. In contrast, Zhengtu players do not draw a strict divide between the game and the real world, and develop their ethics based on the idea of a holistic self that can be improved. They refer to this as the “survival of the fittest” and see the game as a “crucible for the heart.” Rather than seeing the imbalance between wealthy and poor players as unfair, players defend abuses of power as a just and natural part of the game.

Furthermore, this concept of the survival of the fittest is linked to modern anxieties of neoliberal reforms through the concept of suzhi, “quality.” Suzhi represents neoliberal selfhood, both modernity and the capacity to achieve modernity (Anagnost, 2004) The government targets reform programs specifically at the suzhi of rural Chinese, their goal being to improve the “quality” of these people. Urban Chinese use the word to distinguish themselves from rural Chinese in their more distinguished, more modern lifestyle—in this case, suzhi means both a modern lifestyle and the ability to improve one’s life. Rural Chinese are seen by urban Chinese as unable to make these improvements. In Zhengtu, suzhi is used to define “quality play” and “quality players” and this is often associated with those who have spent a lot of money on the game. At the same time, suzhi defines a mode of playing well, of using power responsibly, or of exceptional play among those without money—yet, the possession of power itself is never questioned.

By looking more closely at ethical debates in Zhengtu, I show that ethical and ontological theories of virtual worlds must include the real-world context of the gamers being studied—their culture, traditions, and politics. Those who study virtual worlds need to think reflexively about their own assumptions into the nature of virtuality. While it may seem that a virtual world is a totally new and separate space, the players in the world are not tabula rasa and their lived experience needs to be considered. To begin, a consideration of the effect that real-world context has had on the theories of virtuality via a brief overview of the transcendence/immanence problematic and its influence on theories of virtual worlds, particularly ethical theories.

Theories of Virtual Worlds in the Western Academy

Throughout the history of academic work on virtual worlds and online games, theorists have been consistently concerned with the problem of what is “real” and what is “virtual” and what consequences the existence of a “real world” or “virtual world” might have for people online. Authors have considered the “reality” of virtual relationships, economies, and identities. Often implicit in these investigations is an academic defense: is the virtual world “real” enough to study? Even among researchers for whom the virtual is not clearly divided from the real, the problem persists. I argue that this preoccupation with the “reality” of the virtual stems from a more deep-seated issue in Western academia: the problem of resolving the transcendent from the immanent.

To illustrate the difference between the “real” and the “virtual,” many theorists draw on the allegory of Plato’s cave (Boellstorff, 2008, p. 33; Heim, 1994, p. 87; Hillis, 1999, p. 39; Strate, Jacobson, & Gibson, 2003, p. 99; Wood, 1998, p. 85). Plato proposed a vision of reality in which man was chained at the mouth of a cave, facing inward, so that all he knew of the outside world was the shadows dancing on the back wall. The true world, the world of ideal forms, was invisible. Only the world of shadows and appearances could be sensed (Plato, 2004, p. 208). The metaphor expresses the idea that the world we sense is a world of appearances, and that behind us is a world of ideal forms. This is called the problem of the transcendent and the immanent—and though philosophers no longer seek Platonic ideals, the problematic continues to inform Western thought (Hall & Ames, 1987, p. 12). It leads to divisions between truth and appearance, God and Man, virtue and action, and the real and the virtual. David Hall and Roger Ames call this the “two-worlds” assumption, or the assumption of “strict transcendence” (Ames, 1993, p. 45).

Hall and Ames define “strict transcendence” the following way: “A is transcendent with respect to B if the existence, meaning, or import of B cannot be fully accounted for without recourse to A, but the reverse is not true.” (1987, p. 13). This is to say, the transcendent thing is that which is truly real and effectual, while the immanent thing is a thing of mere appearances, and dependent upon that which is real. Strict transcendence has been an underlying assumption of much of mainstream Western thought, relied upon by the most influential of philosophers from Plato to Spinoza. The assumption of strict transcendence engenders  “a radical distinction between the ways things appear and the world as it truly is” (Hall & Ames, 1998, p. 191). Thus, one of the central problematics of Western philosophy and theology has been the resolution of the binary between the transcendent and the immanent—or, we might say, the actual and the virtual.

This notion of transcendence in the strict sense can be found in the earliest Greeks and in modern philosophy. Plato’s ideal forms and Leucippus and Democritus’ atoms both rely on the idea of some Thing unaffected and unchanged by the rest of the world (Hall & Ames, 1998, pp. 191–192). Likewise, Leibniz’s “logical necessity” means that something is “present in all possible worlds”—something that transcends any one world (Hall & Ames, 1998, pp. 189–190). Continued into the philosophical “God,” by definition transcendent Being, the ideal becomes the Mechanic behind the clockwork of the universe, the Mind behind virtue, the Will behind justice. John Calvin resolves the conflict between the contingent world and the transcendent God through predestination. Spinoza resolves the same problem by declaring that there can be no separate things, only one immutable Being (Hall & Ames, 1998, pp. 193–200). More than this continual problem, the “contrast between the real One ... and the less-real world of change, is the source of the familiar dualistic categories that organize our experience of the world: reality/appearance, knowledge/opinion, truth/falsity, etc” (Ames, 1993, p. 47). Furthermore, one part of these pairs is prior to the other; we insist we live a world of “reality,” “knowledge,” and “truth.” The very idea of “metaphysics” relies on there being a more ideal physics that is prior to lived experience (Ames, 1993, p. 46).

In contrast to the “two-worlds” assumption, classical Chinese philosophy features what Hall and Ames call a “this-world” assumption. The definition of things is not found in transcendent identities, but in the relationships a thing has with the world around it (Ames, 1993). So, a thing is defined as one focus in a wider field of existence, and a person’s subjectivity is defined by its relationships to other people.

One becomes human by cultivating those thick intrinsic relations that constitute one’s initial conditions and that locate the trajectory of one’s life force within family, community and cosmos. (Ames, 2011, p. 87)

Through self-discipline and observing ritual propriety in one’s roles and relations one becomes consummate in one’s conduct [克己復禮為仁]. (Analects, 12.1, in Ames, 2011, p. 283n1)

In contrast, as a result of being part of an intellectual genealogy that has ideal forms as part of its foundation, those who study virtual worlds must often contend with the problem of studying “simulations” or “appearances,” if only to justify the “real scholarship” of the “merely virtual.” Where virtual spaces can seem like toys or playgrounds where nothing of real consequence occurs, researchers must show that their research is somehow relevant to “reality.” Few scholars attempt to separate the virtual and the real entirely, but even those who acknowledge the permeability of the boundary must also acknowledge the boundary itself—and the potential that one side is “less virtual” than the other. These themes can be traced through several bodies of literature on virtual worlds. First are those who weigh the actual world most heavily: social scientists who see virtual worlds as potential simulations of the actual world. Then, those who weigh them relatively equally yet maintain the problematic, asking how real-world economics and relationships are transformed in the virtual, often demonstrating that online society is “just as real” as the real world. Or, “virtuality” can be a state of the so-called real, such as in imagined communities (Anderson, 1983). In these cases, there is often an implicit weight of reality on the actual world, even as the researcher shows that online interactions are just as vital. Finally, many theorists argue that virtual worlds are a field of enhanced authenticity, “more real” than the actual world, since players are not tied down to fleshly fetters and can freely alter their identities, and are more free to pursue any project that they desire.

Those who draw the clearest and most explicitly weighted division between the real and the virtual are those who propose using virtual worlds as a kind of “sociological petri dish,” where economic and social theories from the real world can be tested (Castronova, 2006, Ducheneaut, Moore, & Nickell, 2007; Williams, 2008). Experiments can be easily controlled and closely monitored; the virtuality of the virtual world becomes it advantage. In this case, the virtual world becomes the immanent version of the transcendent actual world. As a result, the problem of the “unreality” of the virtual world is resolved by making the virtual world a simulation of the real, and therefore worth studying. Part of this approach is determining if virtual spaces simulate the real world closely enough, which is called mapping (Williams, 2008). So, for example, Ducheneault attempts to determine whether the cantinas in Star Wars Galaxies qualify as “third places” in the context of the simulation. The question becomes: are virtual worlds accurate simulations of the real world? If virtual worlds are unsuccessful at being simulations of places, they can be alternatively seen as places in themselves; for example, if not able to simulate third places, they can become third places as a whole (Steinkuehler & Williams, 2006). Although no longer whole mirror universes, in this conception, virtual worlds value remains dependent on their ability to act as something with “real value”: a substitution for something the real world lacks.

For many, the relationship between the real and virtual is much more complicated, but the binary nevertheless remains a problem. Annette Markham’s (1998, p. 126) Life Online captured this trouble with virtual research well; the book was subtitled Researching Real Experience in Virtual Space, and she documented how reality could be a “presentation” of text input, how “real” and “virtual” could have shifting meanings (pp. 115–116), and reality itself becomes “disfigured” (p. 223). The virtual world transforms actual world categories, troubling the real/virtual boundary. In the virtual world, your self can become transformed and multiplied through the creation of multiple avatars (Turkle, 1995, p. 12). Yet, just as in the real-world, masculinity remains hegemonic, even as identities become flexible (Kendall, 2002; Turkle, 1995). Masculinities remain “real” in the virtual world, but they have certain transformations, new expressions enabled by the virtual. This perspective continues to mark off virtual worlds as unique spaces even as it deflates the idea that one space is more or less real than the other. Where the real world is boring, the virtual world can be a place to pursue any project one wishes. Virtual worlds become an escape from a dead-end job (Turkle, 1995, p. 239). In Celia Pearce’s (2009, p. 279) study of a community that traversed several worlds, she found a continuous play community that provided a new field of creative and productive play for its participants. Even lacking a persistent virtual space, she argues the virtual relationships become more real than real. Though complicating the picture, these researchers must still grapple with the shadows of the real.

Some see virtual worlds are real locations of culture in themselves, a culture that is not reducible from actual world culture, and a location that residents purposefully mark off from “real life” (Boellstorff, 2008, p. 241). The importance and the distinctiveness of these virtual identities (avatars) to virtual world researchers are evident on the dust jackets of their work, where Tom Boellstorff offers a biography of “Tom Bukowski” and Celia Pearce credits “Artemesia” as coauthor. Against those that see only the possibility of simulation, these authors see these worlds as real in their own right. The virtual world can be shown to be “real” because traditional anthropological ethnographic fieldwork can be practiced there, as though they were islands in the Pacific (Boellstorff, 2008). The world remains separated however, and the value of the virtual continues to be tied in to its ability to produce “really human” or “authentic” experiences that are nonetheless unique to the virtual.

Other theories propose that virtual worlds can be a space of enhanced authenticity. In this case, the transcendent category is in many ways reversed: the virtual is understood as being prior to the real. For many players, virtual worlds represent an escape from the actual world, or an alternate reality. Early work on text-based multiuser domains (MUDs) often focused on the creation of a new identity or new society online, one that was potentially more authentic that one’s “real life” identity. Julian Dibbell wondered how a group of people can “turn a database into a society” and how sex and sexual violence can feel very real even taking place entirely on computer screens—Shannon McRae argued that virtual sex was in many ways more intense than actual sex (Cherney & Weise, ed, 1996, see also Dibbell, 1998). Virtual worlds offer an opportunity to play a character of a different gender or no gender, an animal or a fantasy species. The realm of imagination becomes the realm of true identity. This mirrors the Christian “soul” or the American “true self,” a being that transcends flesh to reach a more ideal plane. The virtual may even be prior to the real. Perhaps, “The virtual” is not something that arose with the advent of computers, but something intrinsic to human experience, all the way back to cave paintings (Rheingold, 1991, p. 380). Perhaps, we have “always been virtual,” and so-called virtual worlds are only the latest and most visually enticing version of this concept (Boellstorff, 2008). Like nations that exist only in the minds of their members, the virtual is a place that has always been here (Anderson, 1983).

Edward Castronova takes the most extreme position. He argues that the fun of virtual worlds in the play-acting. He likens virtual worlds to Star Trek’s holodeck—a place where anything is possible, meaning no one should ever want to leave. Ultimately, Castronova (2008) envisions a coming “exodus” to the virtual world, where people will leave their fleshly bodies behind for virtual bodies that can be “man, woman or both” and where fantasy rules. This virtual exodus clearly mirrors the Christian rapture. Castronova sees people transcending their earthly forms for a realm of pure imagination. He argues that (real world) laws must be written to protect the virtual (Castronova, 2004). To be play, the play-space must be pure play-space.

I do not mean to suggest that all these researchers have an identical and simplistic binary view of virtuality. These few pages can hardly do justice to their many nuanced portrayals of virtual worlds and virtual life. Furthermore, many writers directly question this division. Vili Lehdonvirta writes that “Virtual Worlds Don’t Exist,” arguing against in particular the “petri dish” perspective by showing how the virtual is inevitably connected to the actual world. He gives a nod to the “virtual-is-more-authentic” perspective as well by saying that likewise “the real world doesn’t exist” (Lehdonvirta, 2010). Likewise, studies of more objective-oriented games such as World of Warcraft have come to understand these worlds as oriented toward projects or performances rather than building alternative identities or worlds (Golub, 2010; Nardi, 2010). For most researchers, the virtual world and the real world are not clearly separated. However, the issue of the “reality” of the virtual remains a problem.

My effort here has been to show how the issue of the “reality” or “virtuality” of online games and worlds has been a continual undercurrent to a large body of scholarship on the topic. Whether the virtual is a simulation of the real, a unique part of the real, or something that is even more than real, whether the border is strict, permeable, or nonexistent, the continual issue of the division between two spaces and the valuation thereof remains a foundational assumption of the studies of online worlds. This central problematic extends also to the study of ethics and transgression.

Magical Circles

We can see the influence of the transcendent/immanent problematic in particular in discussions of game ethics among both players and researchers. Researchers often use the concept of “Magic Circles” to talk about ethics in the game, dividing the ethical space of the game from real-world ethics. Likewise, in ethical debates Western players frequently divide the game from the real world. However, these perspectives do not account for how Chinese players of Zhengtu make ethical judgments.

Western game theorists who study deviance and ethics in virtual worlds often draw on a Johan Huizinga’s (1998) “Magic Circle,” which divides the play-space from the real world, Such a circle creates a separate ethical space—a boxing ring has special rules that separate it from normal life; inside it is acceptable to punch another person, while outside it is not. Such an approach relies on a transcendent understanding of “rules of the game,” which assumes they are unified and unchanging and defines deviancy as divergence from these “rules.” (Caillois, 1979; Mortensen, 2008; Myers, 2008). Magic Circle theories of deviance and transgression must create these formalized “rules of the game,” which are transcendentally separated from the actual experience of playing the game. David Myers (2008), for example, attempted to identify the formal qualities of City of Heroes, the character advancements that determined success at the game, which he found were at odds with how the game was actually being played, which was more casual and social.

The classic example of the Guiding Hand Social Club from Eve Online provides an illustration of how gamers and researchers draw on Magic Circle theory when making ethical judgments. In this case, a mercenary group over the course of a year infiltrated an organization, assassinated its leader, and stole in-game assets valued at $16,500 in real U.S. dollars. However, the real issue for most Eve players was not whether it was right or wrong to steal or betray, but whether stealing and betraying was part of the game. Accomplishing the betrayal required the members of Guiding Hand to act outside of the game servers, developing real bonds of trust with their target players. Their plans took place over the much more secure chat channels of private forums and Internet Relay Chat (IRC), not in the game client itself. For some players, this kind of “social engineering” is just a part of the no-holds-barred universe of Eve. For others, it is cheating, because it takes place largely outside of the “rules of the game” enshrined in the game’s code. Ashley John Craft’s (2007) analysis of this event draws heavily on the Magic Circle, likening it to a theatrical representation of a theft, concluding that Guiding Hand’s actions were immoral because they took place outside of the game, instead of “on stage”.

However, research into Chinese gamers has often shown that they do not share this Magic Circle approach to ethics. For them, gaming is an activity that is connected with their wider life, which includes state interventions, hybrid ecologies of knowledge, and age-based moral judgments. Like Western gamers, they participate in online communities surrounding the game, but they also feel the influence of a state that needs to protect children from the dangers of Internet addiction (Golub & Lingley, 2008). Chinese gamers are likely to play in netcafes with other gamers from their own neighborhoods, and form in-game groups based on their real-world location (Lindtner, Mainwaring, Wang, & Drive, 2008). Taiwanese gamers have been shown to judge poor players and poor sports based on perceived youth, not on their violation of a magic circle (Lin & Sun, 2005).

Huizinga argued that games created a separate morality, where behaviors like betrayal or violence were allowed or encouraged. Chinese gamers have a different opinion of how “fairness” is constructed in a game. For players of Zhengtu, poor behavior is not a violation of the separate space of the game, but rather a part of a continuous field of immoral behavior that ultimately rests on a player’s real-world status and relationships. On either side of an ethical debate, players justify or condemn behavior by declaring it continuous with real-world ethics.

What is Zhengtu?

Zhengtu is one of the most popular games in China, with 2.1 million peak concurrent users; it is also one of the most controversial games, primarily due to its “freemium” payment system (Martinesen, 2007). Advertising for Zhengtu emphasizes the “free” aspect of the game. Publicity materials and posters often prominently display the slogan “Forever Free.” However, players often refer to Zhengtu as one of the most expensive games to play. Although technically the game is free to play, in reality it is impossible to accomplish anything without spending real money. Much of the highest-level equipment can only be purchased with real money, and many other functions of the game are also only available to those with cash, such as immigrating from one country to another or getting married. Players who spend more money on the game inevitably have more powerful characters. As a result, the player population is roughly divided into two groups: the rich and powerful and the poor and weak. The first population is referred to as renminbi (Chinese currency) gamers, the second as fei (without) renminbi gamers, hereafter RMB and FRMB players. In actuality, nobody can play Zhengtu for long without spending a little money, so the terms represent in many ways not a clear economic division between populations, but rather differing outlooks on how to play the game.

Although it is very expensive to become powerful in Zhengtu, it is also very cheap to get started. Zhengtu’s developers used the lower cost of advertising in the less-developed areas to build interest in the game before they began advertising in expensive cities (Egan, 2008). According to the official website, Zhengtu can be run on Windows 98 with only 64 MB of video memory. In contrast, Blizzard recommends Windows XP and a 3-D graphics card with 128 MB of memory to play World of Warcraft, currently one of the most popular games in China. The low system requirements plus the free game client means that Zhengtu is almost certainly installed on every computer in every netcafe in China. As a result, Zhengtu is popular with both players with very little money to spend, since it can technically be played for free, and with players with a lot of money to spend, since they can quickly become very powerful.

Zhengtu is also infamous for its elaborate player-versus-player games. Playerkilling, or “PK” refers to these kinds of games and the sorts of people that enjoy playing them, as well as unsanctioned player-versus-player violence. Players who spend a lot of money on the game can be far more powerful than poorer players, and sometimes use PK to prey on the weak. Controversies in the game often involve the justice of this power imbalance. For example, when a character is killed, a player has the option of directing the character’s ghost back to the body to resurrect on the same spot. Some powerful players will “corpse-camp,” waiting for their victim to resurrect, and then killing them again. Ethical judgments over these kinds of behavior are the focus of my research.

PK is a central feature of Zhengtu, and many of the activities that players can engage in, particularly those with valuable rewards, require PK. However, Zhengtu places minimal restrictions on how characters of differing levels can engage in PK. Very low-level characters are protected until they reach Level 20. There are some “Peace” zones, but most of the game world is open season. Players often complain of being attacked while doing other activities, such as temple construction or escorting caravans. The complaint is not necessarily that PK happens—this is considered to be the nature of the game. The complaint is that the PK is unfair, since these higher level players, who have probably purchased expensive gear, can so easily kill a lower level player.

Data for this research were drawn primarily from online forums and websites where players could debate issues and post strategies, and contextualized through gameplay both online and in Internet cafes in Dalian, China. Mia Consalvo (2007) refers to these sources as “paratexts,” including them in the wider culture that surrounds gaming. Themes in these texts were drawn out through a multilevel coding process that identified recurring concepts and vocabularies.

We therefore see in Zhengtu a game that is inextricably connected to the real world through its payment system, and simultaneously fraught with conflict due to its emphasis on PK. This makes the game ideal for studying the relationship between ideas of “the real” and “the virtual” and moral behavior. By looking at debates over ethical behavior in the game, we can see how this economic connection between Zhengtu and the real-world impacts moral judgment among players. Broadening the scope, we can consider Zhengtu as a game embedded in Chinese culture more broadly.

Virtual Worldliness in Zhengtu

Zhengtu players emphasize the connection between the game and the real world, not only through real-world purchases of in-game items but also socially. Most online games have some kind of legitimate or illegitimate market in virtual items (Consalvo, 2007; Dibbell, 2006) and many feature player-versus-player conflict. However, games that feature a subscription model encourage equality among players. Everyone begins the same way and only through spending time on the game can they advance. Through its freemium pay structure, Zhengtu emphasizes inequality. The inequality in the game is seen by players as mirroring the real world. Therefore, Zhengtu is connected to the real world not just economically, through purchase of virtual items, but culturally, through players’ beliefs about the justice of inequality.

One of the ways that Zhengtu players justified controversial actions in the game was to link a player’s position in the game to their position in the real world. RMB gamers routinely justified their position by appeal to the “law of the jungle” (ruorouqiangshi 弱肉强食) or the “survival of the fittest” (youshenglietai 优胜劣汰) The first suggests that their advantages are the result of “nature.” The second phrase suggests that their position is the result of rational or scientific process. Use of Victorian English terms should not be taken to mean that these players have “lost” their “Chinese culture.” Both are deployed in ways that are highly specific to Zhengtu but also broadly connected to contemporary Chinese culture and neoliberal politics. However, the use of these terms also demonstrates the interconnection between the social order of the game and the social order of contemporary China.

The issue of the justice of the “survival of the fittest” came to the fore in one discussion in an official online forum. The debate was over the practices of “cart-stealing.” Cart-stealing takes place during a certain kind of caravan mission, in which the player attempts to escort the caravan through enemy territory, opening himself up for attack by enemies of any level. Cart-stealing is a contentious practice in which higher level or better-equipped player characters not only kill the target but also destroy or steal the contents of the cart. Caravan missions like this require some investment of game money, so destruction or theft of the contents of the cart results in the loss of more than just time. Some players feel that the killing is part of the game, but the destruction of the goods in the cart is excessive. This practice is usually linked to RMB gamers. In the debate, the topic specifically called out high-level RMB gamers as the most notorious perpetrators of cart-stealing. Many RMB gamers and some FRMB gamers defended the practice, while a majority condemned it.

Argued one RMB gamer, “Survival of the fittest is the law of life, to encourage the strong. Life is just this way, much less a game!” This player sees “survival of the fittest” as a law not merely of the game world, but of life itself. There is a border drawn between real life and the game, yet the same process of “fitness” gives purpose to both. “Encouraging the strong” is the meaning of life in and out of the game. Appeal to “law” and the scientific theory of “survival of the fittest” gives this position a modern, rational, and scientific weight, as well as a sense of inexorable social process that controls all levels of human interaction. The game is even more an arena for testing the strong and weak than real life.

Furthermore, these differences are seen as inherent and natural. Defending the practice of cart-stealing, one player wrote. “The game is just this way. It’s the law of the jungle. Among the mountains, one is highest. If you can’t kill it [your opponent], you can run, if you can’t run, you can die. That’s just the way it is.” She appeals to natural imagery—the mountains—to argue that the position of some players is superior to others for no more reason than an inherent quality, such as height. This is unchangeable and player actions must be predicated on this truth. Like Nietzsche's master/slave morality, some are simply better at expressing their will than others (1989).

Some people spend so much money to get the wrong equipment and spend little energy to upgrade their skills. How can they bully xiaohao? Of course its a game of survival of the fittest. I say, in real life, if you don't have skills, and others look down on you, do you resist?

Spending a lot of money on equipment does not guarantee a player a position of strength. Getting the right equipment requires specialized knowledge. Different equipment can provide different bonuses or special effects. Equipment can work well or poorly with a player’s chosen skills and/or playing style. A player unwilling to invest the time and energy to upgrade their skills would likely lack this specialized knowledge. Without these abilities, money has little effect. Another player defended cart-stealing, saying “I’m a level 165 low-level player, but I can kill a level 190 high-level player. It’s the law of the jungle.” Much of the discussion of cart-stealing assumed that the transgressors were RMB gamers whose advantages came from their money. This player reverses these expectations, yet still appeals to the idea of the “law of the jungle.” Whether low or high level, Zhengtu is a jungle where a person can test their fitness.

The idea of “survival of the fittest” establishes the game of Zhengtu as linked to or a part of “real life.” This “real life” is defined by a sense of natural order—the “law of the jungle,” which is “survival of the fittest.” Players justify contentious behavior by appeal to this “real” or “natural” order. The game is therefore characterized as a space for the “real” to continue to be expressed. Although the game may be bounded from real life, there is no sense that the game is not also real. Furthermore, the game is not merely considered part of the wider field of experience, but is considered an aspect of contemporary China’s modern anxieties with neoliberal policy.

Selfhood

Zhengtu players’ idea of the functioning of “the law of the jungle” relies on a particular conception of the self and its relationship to the game and to the real world. This concept of selfhood and the role of games in developing selfhood articulates with beliefs in the “survival of the fittest” and with the postreform Chinese concept of suzhi. We can uncover Zhengtu players’ sense of self by considering their reactions to controversial actions in the game. In the debate over cart-stealing, one player wrote:

Actually, inside the game is fictitious. People often forget that the game is a special concept, even if it links to reality in you. This must be confronted. Although survival of the fittest is a cruel reality, for lack of a better option, enduring daily life is enough. Experiencing the rough patches, you realize that playing games is good for the heart. Killing is a contradiction. Playing games is a time to relieve the pressure on your mind. Games give you control over yourself. They allow you to find your place. What kind of person am I? What games do I play? What must I accept? If you overstep this line of thinking, think again. Don’t blindly assign blame to a game. They are there for your quality of life (shenghuo zhiliang 生活 质量), yours and mine. The willing should come, the unwilling should go

Surprisingly, this player fell on the side of allowing the cart-stealing to continue. In her mind, survival of the fittest is a “cruel reality,” in both the real world and the game world. However, she does not separate out the virtual self from the real world self. The game does not allow the creation of an alternative reality—it is a “special concept” that is “linked to reality.” Like others, she writes that “survival of the fittest” is an experience of “daily life” not just in the game. The self she talks about is therefore not an alternative identity, but one’s own holistic identity.

For this writer, games, however, give you a chance that the real world may not have. Games are therapeutic, “good for the heart.” They “give you control,” let you “find your place.” This does not suggest the creation of an alternative self or a more authentic self, but instead a holistic process of self-cultivation. You cannot blame the game for the injustice that is inherent in reality. Instead, you must recognize what the game offers to harsh reality: an opportunity to improve the quality of your life. If you cannot handle this, then you should go.

Said another player of high-level players killing lower-level gamers, “This is normal and just like real life. If Iraq wasn’t so small would the US have invaded? Fortunately, this is a game. The crucial point is your heart.” Again the game is linked and seen as analogous to the real, and the exploitation of the weak (Iraq) by the strong (the United States) is seen as a natural part of both the game and the real world. Yet, the status of Zhengtu as a game reduces the impact. What is important is your personal reaction to the game, “your heart.”

Another gamer argued, “Anyway, if you don’t want to get bullied, get better equipment, level up, become a high level, then you can protect yourself. You have only yourself to blame.” Like many others, these players argue that the game is a special case of the real in which you have the opportunity to better yourself, not only your character (skills and equipment) but yourself as a real person. Leveling up in the game is not only process of in-game improvement, but a process of improving the self as a whole—“the crucial point is your heart.” They argue for maintaining a player’s ability to cart-steal, since cart-stealing allows high-level players to demonstrate their more fit selves.

This sense of fitness extends to the ability to spend money on the game. A third player argued, “Zhengtu is a crucible for your heart. RMB gamers live it up. Semi-RMB gamers pursue the game. FRMB gamers wallow.” Again, the game is seen as a personal trial for the spirit. RMB players, like monied people in real life, have no struggle, or have already completed their struggle in the real world. Wealthy players are therefore justified in exploiting weaker players. Semi-RMB gamers have both enough money and enough skill to succeed at the game. They have the opportunity to prove their fitness. FRMB players have no choice but to go along for the ride. In this player’s mind, it is really the semi-RMB gamers who are pursuing the game, who are testing themselves in the “crucible.” RMB and FRMB are merely living.

It is not only wealthy players who justify this unequal structure by appealing to the ability to improve one’s self. One FRMB player supported unrestricted cart-stealing. “The game is in your heart. We chose to play FRMB, so it is up to us to find a way to enjoy the game. Don’t they say, life is like a rape? You can’t resist, you just have to learn to enjoy it.” In this player’s mind, Zhengtu is also a form of personal discovery—but without money he cannot really pursue the game—not like the semi-RMB gamers are able to. Instead, FRMB gamers must find their own way to enjoy the game. The game remains a crucible, where players who cannot or will not spend money on the game must burn.

The Chinese term translated as “heart” is xin 心, and in classical philosophy the word implies a concern not for a singular individual, but for a person located within a network of responsibilities. “The xin is a dense locus of feeling and thinking that is invested and expressed in the broad field of roles and relations that constitute each one of us” (Ames, 2011, p. 60). Likewise, Zhengtu players locate the “heart” not within the game alone, but in the wider field of society. Moreover, in Conufucian philosophy cultivating xin is the way to fulfilling one’s natural role. Writes Mencius, “Those who exhaust their heartminds (xin) realize their xing [nature], and to realize their xing is to realize tian [heaven]” (in Ames, 2011, p. 139). Similarly, Zhengtu players see cultivation of xin as the way to self-improvement and to “understand your place.” So, while ethics is on one hand a personal trial and an expression of the will through survival of the fittest, it is simultaneously located within a network of relationships. Whereas Nietzsche's “blonde beast” is an individual standing alone, Confucian role ethics dictates this power be directed into the proper place in society (1989).

By refusing to draw a line between the real world and the game, instead defining both worlds through the “survival of the fittest,” Zhengtu players create a unique form of self. Their concept of self is tied to both their real world and in-game status, and the game becomes a way to improve their holistic selves. Their concept of holistic self emerges from not only the game’s competitive, class-divided structure, but also culturally, from a historical consciousness that placed the “heart” at the center of a field of relationships, and from contemporary, neoliberal concepts of social Darwinism. It is to the latter context that we now turn, considering the idea of suzhi, “quality” and the implications of its use by Zhengtu players.

Quality

Ideas of “survival of the fittest” and a radical selfhood seem to be imports from post-Darwinian Western thought. How are these ideas “made Chinese?” In reform-era China, one concept has drawn the attention of multiple researchers. This concept, suzhi (and related terms), is seen as very important in understanding postsocialist Chinese constructions of the body, class, and proper behavior.

Suzhi is a means of organizing various knowledges around the notion of “quality”; at the same time, it is conceived as a “substance” (zhi) that is to be transformed … In all cases, suzhi refers to a combination of material and ethical substances that it is claimed can be known, calculated, and, in most cases, improved. Most important, suzhi is a key concept for articulating value in a capitalist (or postsocialist) mode of production. (Sigley, 2009, p. 539)

Ann Anagnost argues that suzhi is a way of defining middle-class Chinese identity. Suzhi, in the eyes of the urban bourgeoisie, defines “the minute social distinctions defining a ‘person of quality’ in practices of consumption and the incitement of a middle-class desire for social mobility.” (Anagnost, 2004, p. 190). It is related to the Chinese government’s population project, which seeks to increase the quantity of rural farmworkers and the quality of urban Chinese. This is part of a series of broader neoliberal economic reforms, and a neoliberal conception of the body as a place for potential development. The idea of quality also fits in with scientific ideas such as “survival of the fittest”—suzhi being those traits that make one fit. In Zhengtu, this is money and/or game proficiency.

Furthermore, suzhi is strongly associated with autonomy and selfhood. “Suzhi as it relates to forms of human conduct valorizes subjects that display a high level of ‘autonomy’ … subjects deemed to have ‘low quality’ are considered without the capacity for ‘self-improvement’” (Sigley, 2009, p. 547). In Zhengtu, players consider each other responsible for their own self-improvement, both in terms of their character’s abilities and equipment and their own skills as a player. Some players are excluded from this possibility since they lack the money to purchase powerful equipment. Yet, high-level players still expect low-level players to take responsibility for their own suzhi. This is identical to the way suzhi is used in actual China. Suzhi is simultaneously considered something that is independently gained, yet categorically denied to a wide swath of people, defined as the capacity for improvement, except for those for whom no improvement is considered possible.

One player wrote, “[Games] are there for your quality of life (shenghuo zhiliang), yours and mine.” Zhiliang shares a root with suzhi: zhi, meaning a substance whose quality can be determined. Sigley includes zhiliang among the constellation of terms of “quality.” This player argues that games are a place for self-discovery. “Games give you control over yourself. They allow you to find your place. What kind of person am I? What games do I play? What must I accept?” We previously saw this as a definition of the game as a potential “crucible for the heart.” Considering also the influence of suzhi, we can see how the concept of the self as something that can be improved has been tied to Beijing’s political projects. Thus, games allow one to experiment with upbuilding oneself, dealing with hostile others and mastering a rational system. Games can be a place for improving one’s suzhi.

Contentious behaviors can be seen as lacking suzhi by other players, whether one is a high- or low-level player. Regarding corpse-camping, one player wrote: “What’s a high-level player killing a single person worth? He doesn’t have suzhi.” The author’s grammar makes it unclear, but it seems both the attacker and the victim lack suzhi. The victim is valueless in the neoliberal economy of self: the character’s level is low as well as the player’s ability. The high-level player’s actions similarly lack suzhi. Nothing is earned by killing the character—not in the game nor in real life. The player does nothing to advance his position through random violence.

Although it would seem that the most powerful players are the ones with the most suzhi, the phrase can be used negatively to describe contentious PKers. “Everybody hates these gamers that love to kill others. They’re the most pathetic. Their investment-to-quality (suzhi) ratio is the worst.” In this case, suzhi describes the worth of the player’s gameplay as opposed to the time they have spent on the game. Chronic PKers have no suzhi because the time they spend in the game is wasted on the unworthy. Anagnost argues that suzhi is used in two ways: first to describe the governmental project of improving the quality of the population, then adapted to a second meaning of middle-class microadjustments driven by the desire for social mobility. Thus, FRMB players lack suzhi because their work is not valuable enough to earn them a wage that can pay for expensive virtual goods. Abusive RMB PKers have no suzhi because what they have invested in the game has turned out nothing of value—just bad behavior.

Sigley and Anagnost tie suzhi to Chinese ideas about survival of the fittest and natural selection. In particular, suzhi is about individual survival in a modern world, what Sigley calls “this emerging hybrid of neo-social Darwinism, Chinese socialism, and neoliberalism.” The presence of discourses on natural selection and “quality” in Zhengtu demonstrates how Chinese debates over the nature of a game have a particularly Chinese character, which is the result of historical, political, social, and cultural causes. Furthermore, Zhengtu cannot be a reality separated from the actual world, but is integrated into these discourses.

Suzhi is a Chinese adaptation of neoliberal forms. However, in the deployment of suzhi in Zhengtu, we also see a deeper, more traditionally Chinese concern with self-improvement. In some ways, improving one’s quality can be seen as a Confucian moral imperative, as Mencius wrote on improving one’s xin. Furthermore, the concept of suzhi in Zhengtu, especially in its relationship to ideas of “survival of the fittest,” reveals how Chinese gamers do not view the game world as something that is in any way separable from the real world. The game world is not a special gaming space, but yet another opportunity for self-cultivation. Therefore, in this case, we see the structure of the game interpreted culturally by the players. The nature of the boundary between the real and the virtual is clearly one that is culturally constructed, and this culture is one that transcends the boundary between real and virtual.

Despite the division between wealthy and poor players, we see a common devotion to the idea of personal quality, suzhi, and the possibility of improving it in the game. This is indistinguishable from a player’s real-world suzhi, and successful play is part of improving one’s own true quality. Unlike many Western gamers, Chinese gamers do not find value in the division between the real and the virtual. Instead, they see the virtual world as a “crucible for the heart” where they can be tested and emerge stronger. This questions the theoretical distinction that some theorists make between the real and the virtual, as well as the virtual’s ability to be a society set apart from the real-world culture of its players.

Conclusion

In this article, I have attempted to show how a central problematic of the study of virtual worlds, that of “the virtual” as opposed to “the real,” has roots in a central problematic of Western culture and philosophy, that of “the immanent” versus “the transcendent.” As a result of this central assumption, scholarship into the ethics of games and virtual worlds has focused on the “realness” of ethical behavior and how boundaries between game and “real world” justify or prohibit certain actions. This Western problematic was contrasted with the classical Chinese point of view, which draws no such distinctions between the ideal and the empirical. I have compared these academic perspectives with the experiences of Chinese gamers in Zhengtu, showing that for these gamers, ethics in the game is a matter of self-improvement, and that there is no difference between the self in the game and the self in the “real world.” Furthermore, this morality of self-improvement is linked to the language China’s neoliberal reforms, tying the anxieties of the in-game class division between RMB and FRMB players to the class anxieties of modern China.

Virtual worlds and online games are certainly generative of unique cultures, which are not reducible to their component “real-world” parts (Boellstorff, 2008). Likewise, worldliness is often an important part of how gamers imagine these online spaces. However, this research argues that looking at the broader culture of online populations is necessary for gaining a complete picture of online behavior. In particular, this research has looked at ethical debates, which necessarily consider the game from the outside, in order to determine the appropriateness of actions in the game. Studies that limit ethical standards to the sphere of the game, such as “magic circle” theories, struggle to fully account for player’s behavior. We cannot only ask “what does it mean to be online?” we need to ask, “what does it mean to be young, urban, wealthy and Chinese online?”

This is not to suggest there is some kind of culturally determinative “Chinese way” of playing or making online games, or that Chinese people are necessarily (or only) Confucian. Rather I hope to show the importance of considering the history and broader culture of a population when drawing conclusions about their online behavior. Nor do I mean to suggest that all “Western” academics are bound to frame their arguments in terms of the transcendent. Instead, I urge scholars of virtual worlds to consider their fundamental assumptions by looking at the alternative assumptions made by different traditions. We should be careful not to assume that Western gamers represent the default mode of gaming, and that gamers from other cultures have unusual transformations of this mode; rather, this article has attempted to show how Western gamers as well as Chinese have certain assumptions from their broader experience that influence how they play games.