Zoom-in Online

On what was feeling like a slow news day, I decided to follow through the link from Mashable and explore WeeWorld, a virtual social environment that utilizes avatars called WeeMees.

I decked out my WeeMe in clothes and "emotions" closest to my jaded New Yorker self: dark jeans, lidded eyes, latte in one hand, purse in the other, plus one little fudge (aside from the hair, which no one ever gets right): glasses that are a little more hipstery than my actual frames.

I was basically there to investigate the validity of Mashable's statement that:

"What all this new interactivity does, however, is provide more goal-oriented options for users of WeeWorld. Instead of merely creating avatars with custom rooms, users now have a reason to further explore the site, venture on quests, and perform tasks. With the increase in engagement, WeeWorld will also become more attractive as a marketing tool."

I had recently read Kathy Sierra's assertion that more web developers need to take their cue from the engagement and competition levels of video games. In short, I was there to see whether or not I'd get hooked.

I decided to enter Club Nautilus, a venue within New Dome City, a city contained within -- wait for it -- a dome.

The second my avatar popped up in this new environment, I knew my quest was over. This is not a world aimed at me. It is one aimed at bright, shiny and, as I would soon discover, very horny teens.

The dialogue that takes place in WeeWorld consists of a jumble of "any girlzz in here?" and "hey, you're hot!" and "i'm bored!" and many, many helpless cries of "i'm single!" as avatars awkwardly fly/bound from one randomly placed platform to another.

It's not all that unlike real clubs, I suppose (minus the flying part). But at least in the real world, there is some coherence amidst the madness. You can, for instance, turn to look at someone as you say, "i'm 17 and want to have fun!!!!" so your exclamation reaches its target.

In WeeWorld, that's not the case.

Avatars pile up in groups that feel like colorful mass graves as talk bubbles pop up and layer on top of one another, making following a conversation impossible for ancient, 24-year-old me. About the only direction the game provides is a golden halo around your avatar so you can at least distinguish yourself from the crowd.

My avatar looks like a mother figure compared to others and, mentally, I'm feeling like one.

I was once the tween who blew the older folks' mind with my ability to keep up conversations in chatrooms while filtering out the useless A/S/L garbage. But here, I'm lost. It's all just noise. Noise that happens while we're all stiffly bounding about for no apparent reason.

I decided that Chillax Station would have something more my speed. A place to recline, maybe, and, as the name implies, chill out. But no. There is no reclining in WeeWorld. Just like in the other areas of New Dome City, when you enter an environment you are placed on a random platform. Other characters jump, fall and generally crowd around you, with "SINGLE!" as their battle cry. Their usernames are hidden below them, blending in with the environment.

I quickly scooted off the side of the platform, with nary a care as to where I might land.

The world below provided no respite. More avatar pileups. A milkshake stand that doesn't actually sell you anything.

I jumped up to a floating coffee shop with a similar lack of functionality, and decided I need to say something. "Do you guys like this place? Or this game or whatever?" "BOOYAH" was the nearest reply, followed by "Guy in purple cute." I stuck around long enough to hear more of the same, and then bounded elsewhere.

In fact, I bounded so high that I found a special prize: tangled masses of black letters, hanging in the upper atmosphere of the Station like clouds. A closer look revealed that they were the residue of usernames of those who may have, perhaps, bounded too high. An Icarus-like warning. Stay below, children. Proclaim thy wishes to mate. But do not attempt to leave The Dome.