Estimates suggest 400,000 people are employed to build up credits in online games such as World of Warcraft and EverQuest by virtual gold mining or r such ways of building up in-game credits that can be translated into real value.This article titled “How gold farmers reap huge harvest from online gaming” was written by Josh Halliday, for The Guardian on Wednesday 25th May 2011 19.15 UTCTens of millions of people spend hours and pay big money for virtual gains on the most popular multiplayer online games, including World of Warcraft, Eve Online and EverQuest.Behind these games are “gold farmers”, who spend hours within the games each day, gathering virtual credits and selling them to gamers for real world cash.The most recent estimates, from 2009, suggest that 400,000 people are employed as gold farmers across the world, with 85% of those in China and Vietnam, according to Professor Richard Heeks of the University of Manchester.These gold farmers are almost entirely males between 18 and 25, and most are either cash-strapped college students or unemployed rural migrants. They sell in-game advantages – an increased skill level, or a virtual ore – to players eager to boost their online reputation.The multiplayer online games industry has boomed in recent years thanks to increased internet access and the rise of social networks. World of Warcraft, easily the most popular of its kind, had 12 million subscribers last year.According to a report published by the World Bank last month, gold farming was worth about $3bn (£1.85bn) in 2009 – most of which was kept by developing countries. guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010Published via the Guardian News Feed plugin for WordPress.Thanks for subscribing to Andy Roberts blogHow gold farmers reap huge harvest from online gamingRelated posts:Farmers collaborate online to face rural uncertaintyOnline advertising in the UKRolling Your Own Online Office
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How gold farmers reap huge harvest from online gaming
http://distributedresearch.net/blog/2011/05/29/how-gold-farmers-reap-huge-harvest-from-online-gaming
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May 29 2011, 9:16am | Comments »
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Karl Marx, part 6: The economics of power
http://distributedresearch.net/blog/2011/05/09/karl-marx-part-6-the-economics-of-power
Karl Marxand Marxist economics are often accused of reducing humans to mere expendable specks of matter within the greater economic scheme of things
This article titled “Karl Marx, part 6: The economics of power” was written by Peter Thompson, for guardian.co.uk on Monday 9th May 2011 09.00 UTC Having so far concentrated on philosophy and politics we now turn to what was the major part of Marx’s output, namely the economics. But it is in the economics where his political philosophy begins to take on real form. There is not space enough here to cover the enormous range of his economics but there are a few basics which need to be dealt with in this slightly longer piece and which can be fought out below the line as usual. Alan Budd, who was an economic adviser to Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s once made an interesting point about Marxist economic theory and government policy on the fight against inflation at the time:
“[People] did see that it would be a very, very good way to raise unemployment, and raising unemployment was an extremely desirable way of reducing the strength of the working classes – if you like, that what was engineered there in Marxist terms was a crisis of capitalism which re-created a reserve army of labour and has allowed the capitalists to make high profits ever since.”
Marx’s basic starting point was that in contrast to all previous historical epochs capitalism is a system of “generalised commodity production” in which the workers’ abstracted labour power itself became a commodity to be traded. In all previous epochs, human labour had been used to create a surplus product, usually subsistence farming and a surplus used for first bartering and then trading. Under the ancient mode and slavery through to feudalism, the product and the means of producing it was clear; food, clothing, the means of life. You worked for the master and you belonged to the master in one way or another. The German word for serf, for example, is Leibeigener; your body literally belongs to the master. Capitalism liberates you from that and turns you into a free agent, apparently able to enter into a free contract to sell your labour to whomsoever you see fit. You are cast out of your old existence and are set on the route to making your own. The second verse of All Things Bright and Beautiful – “the rich man in his castle/ the poor man at his gate/God made them high and lowly/ and ordered their estate” – no longer applies. Whereas before you were a bondsman, now you are a journeyman and you can set off to make your own fortune, as the fairy tales have it. In economic terms, what before was a tangible surplus product is now transformed into intangible surplus value. You enter into this apparently free contract with an employer but the wage you draw from that employment is only a part of the value you create. Just as before a portion of the cabbages and linen you made belonged to the master, now a proportion of the monetary value you make through the production process belongs to the employer and you will only be employed if a competitive rate of surplus value can be generated through your labour. This is at the root of Marx’s version of the labour theory of value. The employer will provide the machines or tools for the completion of the task (constant capital) while the worker provides the labour power (variable capital). The employer will always be trying to improve labour productivity and can do so in various ways, but all of them boil down to improving the gap between your wage and the amount of value created by your labour power. This means that for Marx the commodity labour power has a special character in that it is the only commodity which can be employed to increase value, while all the others are merely reified forms of dead human labour, useless without labour input. An advanced car-producing robot no more creates value than does a peasant’s shovel. In theory there is no difference here to previous epochs where we accept the labour theory of value because it is measured in tons of cabbages and yards of linen but now that it becomes a commodified and monetarised relationship it also becomes a quasi-mystical one, with value apparently emerging mysteriously out of all sorts of transactions and technologies and with market mechanisms and competition wiping out and obfuscating the distinction between what it costs to produce something and its price. On these threads, for example, a critique of Marx has emerged which posits a kind of paradoxical capitalist utopia in which we have reached 100% automation of production with no labour input at all anywhere by anyone. This reductio ad absurdum is of course as realistic as the world of Arnie’s Terminator or of Joh Fredersen’s Metropolis in which workers become surplus to requirements, but it does serve to illustrate a point because the further question then emerges as to how the goods produced are going to be purchased if no one is earning any wages through the productive process. Under capitalism labour productivity may improve massively, but it can never be reduced to zero because that would remove all demand for the goods produced. You would then have to distribute commodities or vouchers to the entire population based on some sort of criteria not linked to labour input and then where do we end up? Oh, of course, at communism, in which each gives according to their ability and receives according to their need. Capitalist competition over labour productivity thus not only produces its own gravediggers but also provides the shovels (or robots) to finish the job. Labour productivity can be increased in all sorts of traditional ways such as making workers work harder for less money, speeding up the production lines, extending the working day, getting people to work longer for the same or even less money, seeking out newer, cheaper labour sources through globalisation etc and, as Alan Budd points out, all of the above are regularly used, but for Marx they all only put off the dread day of collapse in which the workers realise that the harder and more productively they work, the smaller the proportion of the surplus value they create comes to them. Since the mid-1970s the common way to put this off has been through enormous levels of debt, either by the state or the private individual. It is that tendency which both brought about the collapse of the Soviet Union – which over-borrowed in order to maintain full employment as a political necessity without raising productivity – and the current crisis in the west where a debt-fuelled asset price bubble in order to artificially stimulate demand has created the greatest economic crisis in a century. But for Marx, at the root of it all is the question of how surplus value is created and distributed and, most of all, what this does to human relations and desires. The commodification of labour power also brings with it the commodification of humans and their alienation from both themselves and the products of their labour power. It is an accusation often aimed at Marx that he reduces human beings to mere expendable specks of matter within the greater economic scheme of things, but it could be argued that the opposite is the case and that the whole point of Marxist economic analysis is precisely about trying to bring about a recognition that it is generalised commodity production which has commodified people and that it doesn’t have to be like that. The final two columns in this series will go on to discuss how this process of economic alienation feeds through into religion and ideology and the means by which people manage to cope with being mere playthings of larger forces; how a sense of autonomy, faith and hope are maintained in an apparently constrained, rationalistic and futureless world. This will bring us right back to where we started: the land of Ideologiekritik.
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May 9 2011, 5:15am | Comments »
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Spring’s here: skylarks overhead, moles in the garden, moths in the bathroom
After a long, hard winter, the seasons have turned and at last the days are lengthening. Spring is here with skylarks, moths, moles, chiff chaff, rowan tree buds, wagtails, catkins and lambing.
This article titled “Spring’s here: skylarks overhead, moles in the garden, moths in the bathroom” was written by Rob Penn, for The Observer on Sunday 27th March 2011 00.05 UTC Winter was very long in the Black Mountains. We’ve been embattled by the weather since snow fell in late November and the temperature hit –15C. I’m not expecting a campaign medal. I can’t remember anticipating spring so eagerly, though. There is no universally accepted event that heralds the new season, but it arrived incontrovertibly for us last week, with a period of high pressure that brought warm sunshine, temperatures in the teens and stirrings of new life in the dead land. For meteorologists, who like to tidy the year into four neat sections, spring begins on 1 March. For astronomers, the vernal equinox (20 March this year) marks the turning of the season. For some, it’s the moment the clocks go forward. For trout fishermen, it’s the first hatch of March browns or even grannom, the drab fly that erupts in clouds over rivers at the beginning of April. Others identify more intimate ambassadors: the first dashing yellow daffodil, the rising dawn chorus of birdsong, the earliest appearance of frogspawn in ponds and ditches, the first cut of grass, a pied wagtail over ploughed land and yellow catkins dangling from hazel branches all symbolise spring’s arrival for someone. . For me, spring is evidenced in many ways. On dewy mornings, when the sun rises over the hill behind our house and illuminates the lawn, lighting the million pearls of moisture suspended from the tip of every blade of grass, I know the waiting is over. When there are moths in the bathroom, moles in the garden and the moor is full of the liquid trill of skylarks, spring has arrived. When I can cycle down the hill to my office in Abergavenny in a T-shirt, with sunshine on my forearms and warm air funnelling over the creases in my face, I feel the wheel of the year has turned. It’s an elementary pleasure, a madeleine moment that validates my existence at this time, year after year. Observing the coming of spring is part of the British condition. I’m told it’s the moment in the year when expats pine for home the most: Oh, to be in England/ Now that April’s here, Robert Browning wrote in Home-thoughts, from Abroad in 1845. There is satisfaction in knowing that its arrival is timeless: a joy identical to me and to someone who inhabited the iron age hill fort a mile from my home, 2,750 years ago. Exactly 275 years ago, we started documenting it. In 1736, Robert Marsham saw the first swallow of the year wheeling and banking over the open fields at Stratton Strawless in Norfolk, eating insects on the wing in celebration of having completed an epic, 6,000-mile journey from southern Africa. Marsham wrote the event down, in effect inventing a new field of study, phenology – the effects of cyclic and seasonal phenomena on plants and animals. Marsham recorded 26 “Indications of Spring”, as he called them, without interruption, for 62 years. He noted the dates different trees first came into leaf, blossom and flowers came out, frogs first croaked and butterflies appeared. In collating his observations, Marsham, a friend of the more famous naturalist Gilbert White, crystallised a British fascination. It’s a fascination that could be as old as the seasons themselves and which is still manifest today, not least in the popularity of the BBC series Springwatch. For farmers in the Black Mountains, spring means lambing: an arduous, 24-hour vigil that lasts for up to eight weeks, leaving many of the protagonists looking as if they’ve just been released from a POW camp. “Most farmers are lambing by the end of March,” said Mark Morgan, a farmer in the Llanthony Valley. “It’s the most important time of year. Everything depends on these few weeks. It’s hard work, but it’s fulfilling and something we take pride in. For me, spring starts with lambing. It’s like waking up from some primeval nightmare.” The winter preparations for this moment are complete and the monochrome landscape looks ordered. The hedges are laid and trimmed or “flail cut”. Gates have been rehung. The fields have been “chain-harrowed”. Though the grass is still pallid, the effect of this raking is visually dramatic from afar: the green, two-tone strips are the first hint there is life in the long-dormant earth. In our garden, growth meets decay when spring arrives. The decay is a reminder that I’ve been idle over the winter. I’ve pruned some of the fruit trees and cut the raspberry canes, but there’s still a mountain of clearing and pyres to be set alight. Last week my wife and I dug over and weeded the vegetable patch – another winter task we didn’t get round to before the earth turned to iron in November. We like to toil over the veg patch together each year, satisfying an immemorial urge to provide food. Lettuce, coriander and rocket seeds have been planted in the greenhouse. In a rare fit of exuberance for gardening, my kids have planted sunflowers, alpine strawberries and a packet of wild flower mix. The first wee shoots of basil are showing on the windowsill in the kitchen. The old spaniel, who was all but written off by the vet a month ago, has a touch of his swagger back. He loves the warmth and passes the afternoons in a suntrap in the lee of the byre. The young spaniel stalks under the copse of birch trees, thrusting his snout into the rabbit holes and intermittently exhaling hot air from his nostrils into the burrows. Inside the house, the mice have thankfully moved off to their summer residence. The coat cupboard has had an interim clearout: arctic boots, salopettes, woollen hats and a diverse selection of single children’s gloves have gone to the attic. It snowed in the Black Mountains in late March last year; the rest of the coats stay out for now. In the wood we manage as a community group, high up on Hatterall Hill, the rush of activity to coppice the stools of hazel is over and the chainsaws are quiet for now. In fact, we stopped all tree felling at the beginning of March, as birds are nesting earlier and earlier. There’s still plenty to do: the trunks and thicker branches of hazel need to be cut into 2ft lengths, ready to be loaded in the burner we’ll use to make barbecue charcoal over the following months. The hazel sticks will be bundled up and left in a pond for a fortnight, until they’re used for making hurdles. The firewood, most of it windblown, will be stacked and left to season. The clocks go forward today. The extra hour of daylight in the evenings is always welcome, but the more significant milestone for me is the passing of the equinox. Daylight hours are now longer than the hours of darkness and increasing by three or four minutes every day. It’s a psychological crossroads: for the first time in the year, I feel I can be profligate with daylight. I can be outside and content doing nothing. I walk the dogs because I want to, not because I have to. There is time to lean against a tree, look up and let the sun burn golden palaces on to my closed eyelids. Of course, spring is the time to be social too. Human interaction redoubles as the sun strengthens, turning even the dourest farmers into extroverts. On the lanes, people stop to chat on the thinnest premise. In town, every face offers a smiling reception. It is no wonder spring is pregnant with pagan mating rituals. It’s the season of possibility, for us as much as nature. For that alone, we should celebrate its arrival. Rob Penn is the author of It’s All About the Bike: the Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels (Particular Books).
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 Published via the Guardian News Feed plugin for WordPress.
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Related posts:Big Garden Bird Watch results are out Plantwatch: Welcome warmth brings spring blossom Winter Solstice The Shortest Day
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March 27 2011, 9:57am | Comments »
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