Before the first release, there was already a bug.
It appeared first as hunger. Then fear. Then the thrilling new ability to name a stranger enemy and call it necessary.
Humanity has been updating itself ever since.
Version 1.0—Fire
Added the thrilling new ability to point at shadows and invent gods.
Known issue: Users keep discovering that a hand can hold either bread or a stone.
Developers maintain this is a feature.
Version 1.7—Tribe
Added names for everyone inside the circle.
Added worse names for everyone outside it.
Added drums. Added dancing. Added the first man who looked at another man’s need and said, unfortunately, there are procedures.
Bug report: Empathy not scaling beyond immediate family group.
Version 2.3—Border
Added fathers explaining why the sons must go.
Improved map functionality: Rivers now capable of separating the innocent from the slightly differently innocent.
Added fences, checkpoints, uniforms, stamps, paperwork, and one tired woman at a desk who has not slept since the Bronze Age.
Civilization now recognizes “ours” and “theirs.”
Humanity still not compatible.
Version 3.1—Empire
Expanded vocabulary for taking things.
Added destiny, extraction, trade routes, museums, treaties, and several marble rooms in which stolen objects can appear beautifully lit and almost harmless.
Added remorse language.
Remorse language only available after legal review.
Known issue: Ghosts accumulating in infrastructure.
Developers advise ignoring the pipes when they whisper.
Version 4.1—House
Ported conflict to domestic environments.
Added drawers that slam like verdicts.
Added doors that learn the language of artillery.
Added silence between family members, now available in twelve regional dialects.
Improved dinner table tension. Users may now experience dread while passing peas.
Version 4.9—Broadcast
Civilian casualties now render as unfortunate necessity.
Displacement renamed movement.
Hunger renamed pressure.
Mourning renamed cost.
Death renamed outcome.
Added experts. Added graphics. Added a man with perfect hair explaining that suffering, while regrettable, is very complicated and therefore nobody in particular did it.
Added breaking news.
News continues to break.
Version 6.6—Father
Improved inheritance system.
Added phrases:
Because I said so.
Don’t make me come in there.
You think you’ve got it hard?
I’ll give you something to cry about.
Added emotional opacity.
Added male sadness, which may appear as rage due to rendering error.
Known issue: User may confuse fear for respect.
Known issue: Love unavailable during maintenance.
Version 7.0—School
Added names of battles.
Added the phrase “never again,” repeated annually with increasing pageantry and decreasing accuracy.
Children now able to recite the year a war began while failing to identify the sound of one starting in their own home.
Added wreaths.
Added solemn music.
Added a minute of silence, which is not long enough, but nobody knows what to do with two.
Version 8.4—Apology
Improved reconciliation interface.
Added “I’m sorry you felt that way.”
Added “Mistakes were made.”
Added “This is not who we are,” despite extensive documentation.
Added public statements, private settlements, commemorative plaques, and one minister blinking with the spiritual vacancy of a printer jam.
Known issue: Wound remains active beneath ceremony.
Version 8.9—Child
Added child user to affected household.
Child observes father.
Child observes father observing grandfather.
Child observes grandfather observing a war that officially ended years ago but continues to receive updates through the blood.
Child learns footstep recognition.
Child learns weather from breathing.
Child learns which rooms are safe and which moods have knives in them.
Child learns humor.
Humor deployed as emergency flotation device.
Child says, “At least the apocalypse is punctual.”
No one laughs.
The apocalypse notes this for later.
Version 9.0—Memorial
Added photographs.
Added folded flags.
Added speeches about sacrifice delivered by men who are no longer young enough to be sacrificed.
Added children in clean shirts reciting dates they will later ignore.
Added monuments with excellent posture.
Added names carved into stone, which is apparently what we do when we cannot bear to carve them into policy.
Known issue: Memorial may create the impression that the past is finished.
Known issue: Past still running in background.
Version 9.7—Mirror
Added adult narrator.
Adult narrator now contains father’s jaw.
Adult narrator now contains grandfather’s silence.
Adult narrator now contains ancient instructions packed tightly behind the teeth.
Scenario loaded:
A smaller person stands in front of narrator.
A child, or brother, or student, or anyone still soft enough to believe the world is not yet inevitable.
The cup is broken.
The room is waiting.
The old script appears.
Say the cruel thing.
Raise the hand.
Make the wound useful.
Call it lesson.
Call it strength.
Call it what happened to you and therefore what must happen next.
System prompts narrator to continue family tradition.
Narrator experiences catastrophic tenderness.
Narrator says nothing.
Then narrator kneels.
Then narrator picks up the pieces.
Then narrator says, “Are you hurt?”
The room does not know what to do with this.
The ghosts look up from their trenches.
The knives remain in the drawer.
Version 10.0—Refusal
Removed inherited command: Hurt what hurt you.
Removed automatic escalation.
Removed father’s voice from emergency settings.
Installed language for apology.
Installed hands that open.
Installed pause before impact.
Installed sentence: That should not have happened to you.
Installed sentence: You do not have to earn gentleness.
Known issue: History may attempt to reinstall itself.
Known issue: Older versions may run during stress, grief, hunger, bureaucracy, Christmas, or any conversation beginning with “we need to talk.”
Peace has fewer sound effects.
Version 10.1—Minor Fixes
Updated kitchen.
Knives still present.
Bread still possible.
Fire still undecided.
Child user asks what happens next.
Narrator does not know.
This is the first honest release note in several thousand years.
Narrator opens hand.
Child takes it.
For once, nothing explodes.
