My MOOC Experience – Week Three (Being Human)

This week in eLearning and Digital Cultures was all about being human. In addition to watching videos and reading articles, there was an Image Contest. We were invited to create an image that illustrates a theme in the course and upload it to Flickr with the tag, #edcmooc. Using Flickriver’s “interestingness” rating (based on comments, favorites, and clickthroughs), the instructors will identify the top five images, and the winners will receive a Gelaskin cover for their phones, customized to depict their winning image.

Instead of providing a narrative about my experience this week, I am going to share my image, which I’ve titled “Perspective”:

You help my interestingness rating by viewing, commenting on, or favoriting my image on Flickr and you can view the other student’s images.

Angry Birds: A model for learning

Renown literacy scholar James Paul Gee is the author of What Video Games have to teach us about Learning and Literacy, which outlines 36 principles for good learning. Gee derives the principles from what he’s observed as a gamer and from interviews with gamers, and he argues that the same things that make a video game good could (and should) be applied to school learning. Gee specifically focuses on immersive role-playing and first-person-shooter games, but many of his learning principles about basic skills, practice, and rewards apply to much simpler games, including Angry Birds.

Basic Skills

Two of Gee’s principles about basic skill acquisition are prominent in Angry Birds: the “Bottom-Up Basic Skills Principle” and the “Discovery Principle.” The bottom-up basic skills principle states that skills are not learned in isolation; instead, the learner discovers the skill as she engages in the activity. As Gee puts it, “by the time new players are aware of what are basic skills in a given type of game … they have already mastered them” (140). That said, throwing learners into an unknown environment without any overt instruction is not advisable. As Gee explains, humans “need immersion in actual contexts of practice, but they can find such contexts confusing without overt information and guidance” (114). This is where the discovery principle comes in—overt instruction exists, but is kept to a minimum, allowing the learner to experiment and explore.

In Angry Birds, the overt instruction happens every time we are introduced to a new bird:

Notice the subtlety of this “instruction”—there are no words, the image doesn’t fully demonstrate the bird’s capabilities, and once you press the check, you don’t get the image again. You learn the rest through actually playing the game. As you experiment, you find out that the red bird is good at breaking wood, but not anything with metal around it, and the blue birds are especially adept at breaking through ice. The “training” for the yellow bird makes it look like the bird will change directions when you tap your finger, but it actually speeds up in the direction that it was already heading and thus very good for breaking through dense structures.  

Situated Practice

As you continue playing the game, you learn more about the different birds’ abilities, and you are introduced to more birds. You are also forced to adopt more sophisticated strategies, which is all facilitated through practice. Angry Birds’ approach to practice is particularly indicative of Gee’s “Practice” and “Regime of Competence” principles. The key to the practice principle is that engaging in a task over and over is not boring because the learner experiences ongoing success; she needs to feel like she is moving forward and not simply repeating the same skill. Part of what makes practice enjoyable is illustrated by the regime of competence principle, which states that the learner is operating on the outer edge of her abilities such that the task is challenging, but not impossible. (Gee 65-68)   

Practice is built into every aspect of Angry Birds. The first levels only involve the red bird, and often multiple red birds, so the player repeatedly practices positioning the slingshot so that the bird hits the structure at the desired angle. Furthermore, players are encouraged to play the levels multiple times either because they were not successful on the first attempt or because they only earned one or two out of the three possible stars. This repetitive practice is further reinforced because most levels take less than a minute to play, so it is not a big commitment for the player to repeat a level and experiment with different strategies. This repetition does not seem dull because success is constant; players are rewarded with points any time their birds hit a structure or a pig, they are rewarded by the three-star system, and they are rewarded by the potential for earning new high scores when they repeat levels.

The regime of competence is similarly ingrained in Angry Birds, and is especially noticeable from level to level. For example, I learned from the first few levels of Angry Birds Rio that aiming my bird at the base of a structure was sure to knock it down and it meant I earned more points because I received points for breaking up the structure as well as for releasing the birds from their cages.

However, when I tried the same strategy a few levels later, it didn’t work, partly because the base was made of metal, which the red bird can’t break through.

After several unsuccessful attempts, I finally tried shooting the red bird high over the structure, and found that, in this instance, a dive-bomb was better than attacking the base.

Charles Mauro, president of Mauro New Media, argues that practice in Angry Birds is particularly enjoyable because the designers cleverly managed response time. Instead of making the flight of the birds fast, players watch a slow progression along a clearly marked trajectory, which gives the player time to think about error correction. In my case, it meant I attempted to shoot the red bird at the base in a variety of ways because I hoped a different angle would produce better results. There is also a time delay between when your last bird hits the structure and when the screen comes up to allow you to retry the level or continue to the next one. Mauro argues that this delay gives the player “time to structure an error correction strategy.” In my case, it meant I considered the structure more closely, ultimately deciding that I needed my bird to dive-bomb into the middle of things.

It didn’t take much for me to try a new strategy and I was certainly capable of finding a solution, but it took longer to pass this level than any of the others in that first episode. Success was well within my regime of competence, but the game was forcing me to experiment until I was willing to shift my previous assumption that there was one “best” way to bring down a structure.

Rewards

Rewards are a crucial part of motivating players to practice skills within a game and to continue playing the game when they are brought to the edge of their regime of competence. Games also cater to players with various skill sets, which is precisely what Gee’s “Achievement Principle” is about: from the beginning, there must be intrinsic rewards for all learners, and the rewards should be customized to each learner’s level, effort, and growing mastery (64).

Angry Birds most prominently accomplishes this through points and through the three-star system. The points are important because even if you don’t hit the pigs (or cages in Rio), you can still earn an incredible amount of points by hitting the structures and making things explode, which makes the levels satisfying even if you don’t win.

When you do win, you pass the level with one, two, or three stars, thus allowing players of various skills to play through the entire game. Interestingly, the points and stars are separate reward systems—as you’ll notice below, I earned almost the same amount of points for a one-star win as I did for a three-star win on another level.

So what makes players go for three stars? In the case of Angry Birds Rio, the answer is bonus levels. After I completed the first 15 levels, I had earned 26 stars; bonus levels were available for 30, 50, and 70 stars. 

Immediately, I replayed a couple of levels and earned four more stars. A better player might have been closer to the 50- or 70-star levels, and probably would have felt the same nudge to go ahead and get those few remaining stars required to claim the reward. I should also note that I didn’t feel bad for being at the lowest level—I was pleased to be able to unlock a bonus at all.

 

For the players who easily collect stars for level completion, Angry Birds offers additional challenges—players can hunt through the levels and collect special rewards that are tracked in the Awards Room. 

 

Closing Thoughts

Angry Birds is a lot of fun to play, and Gee’s principles show that what makes it fun is that it both requires learning and rewards learners at various skill levels. I find this interesting in part because I don’t think many people would call what they do when they play Angry Birds learning. But what’s even more interesting is that I could have done this analysis on any game. These principles aren’t specific to Angry Birds or to first-person-shooters or to video games; they are generalizations about the way humans learn, generalizations that prove that learning even the most menial task can be quite fun if it’s framed with ample rewards and an appropriate balance of instruction and discovery that pushes learners to the edge of their individual competence levels.

Unfortunately, Gee argues, in school, “many so-called advantaged learners rarely get to operate at the edge of their regime of competence … [and] less advantaged learners are repeatedly asked to operate outside their regime of competence” (68). The solution is not to create an Angry Birds-type game that teaches math or grammar. The solution is to apply Gee’s principles to school learning; one way to start is to create a reward system that acknowledges and incentivizes learners at various skill levels.

My MOOC Experience (#edcmooc) – Week Two

This week in eLearning and Digital Cultures was rather meta. We read two opinion pieces about MOOCs, Napster,Udacity, and the Academy and QuestioningClay Shirky, and watched a lecture about open education byGardner Campbell.

In “Napster, Udacity, and the Academy,” Clay Shirky compares higher education with the music industry. He argues that Napster and MP3s told the world that you don’t have to buy a whole CD; you can just buy one song. He claims that MOOCs are similarly offering a new narrative: education doesn’t have to be something that only the elite can access, and maybe we don’t need to buy a whole degree; maybe we should just download the courses we need. Shirky points to the inhibiting expense of a college education to bolster his argument: “an undergraduate education used to be an option, one way to get into the middle class. Now it’s a hostage situation, required to avoid falling out of it.”

Aaron Bady responds to “Napster, Udacity, and the Academy” in “Questioning Clay Shirky.” He criticizes Shirky’s lack of evidence that online education is valuable or that MOOCs are truly “open,” and argues that a comparison of higher education and the music industry is problematic. He further contends that Shirky is dividing students into “elite” and “non-elite” and then not expecting MOOCs to offer the same quality of education as institutions like Harvard, but Bady’s arguments get a little confusing because it seems that he’s advocating for quality online education while at the same time condemning MOOCs for being the equivalent of “a link to WebMD as a replacement for seeing a real doctor.”

I wasn’t particularly impressed with either of the articles, mainly because both authors are so defensive of their positions that their arguments lack balance. Instead of pitting MOOC supporters against the academy, I’d like to see the conversation back up to more fundamental questions: What is the purpose of higher education? What intrinsic value do students gain from a four-year degree? Is there something in the four-year experience that’s inherently valuable, or is the value tied to the specific institution?

In his keynotelecture at Open Ed in October 2012, Campbell approaches these questions, claiming that there is a tension between what education is supposed to do (he draws on Bateson’sHierarchy of Learning to argue that education should push students to think differently and creatively), and the structures built into institutions of higher education that force students to “play the game” of learning to satisfy the teacher’s expectations and earn an A.

I think Campbell would say we need to not only ask, what is the purpose of education? But also, how can we change our education practices and structures to actually accomplish that purpose? With this framing, I don’t think it needs to be Higher Education versus The MOOCs. Instead, MOOCs, for-profits, non-profits, ivy leagues, community colleges, state schools are all part of a larger conversation that is trying to solve a very real problem.  

PS: Students from the University of Edinburgh joined the MOOC this week; they created digital artifacts and posted them on the course site. Here is my favorite, by Amy Woodgate:

My MOOC Experience (#edcmooc) – Week One

It’s been an interesting week! The topic was utopian versus dystopian views of technology—we explored this by watching four videos, reading a couple of articles about technological determinism, and exchanging ideas via the discussion forums, blogs, and twitter. The five instructors also hosted an hour-long Google Hangout on Friday.

While I found the videos and articles interesting, I find myself more intrigued by the structure of the MOOC. I expected a self-motivated environment, but I was surprised at just how much the learning depends on my willingness to participate. There is an implied expectation that we watch the videos and read the “core” article (there are also quite a few “advanced” articles in the Week One Resources), and there is a clear directive that we are to engage in two of the various conversations happening in the forums and on social networks. But no one is checking to make sure we do this.

I found the structure strange at first, but ultimately empowering. I began by watching each of the four films and making notes. Then I started reading the core article. And I just wasn’t into it. So I stopped reading. I skimmed a few of the advanced readings, watched another video, browsed the discussion forums. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed this nonlinear survey of the materials, and I soon found myself connecting the ideas to my own preoccupations (in this case, what readings to assign my first-year composition students next quarter).

I did not choose to post in the forums, but I was impressed with how many of the responses were expanding upon what others had said, and with how many students were starting their own threads to take the discussion in new directions. I can’t help but assume that this positive engagement is the result of thousands of people having the flexibility to choose how to engage—it seems to foster an environment where we only contribute if we actually have something to say. For me, being a passive observer was sufficient because it led me to a very active (though private) application of the ideas.

Clearly, I will get out of this MOOC what I put into it. No one is monitoring me or grading me, and that’s not why I’m taking the course. Without the grades and expectations, I’m free to engage with the material and use it in a way that actually applies to my life. On the other hand, I feel like my approach makes this MOOC a supplement to work I’m already doing; I don’t know how much I would be getting out of it if I wasn’t already interested in elearning and digital cultures. But, of course, I wouldn’t have volunteered to take the course if I wasn’t interested.

Before signing off, I want to make a quick comment about the Google Hangout (which I've embedded below), partly because it was fascinating enough for me to sit through the full hour of recorded video. The five instructors addressed common questions they had seen arise from the community throughout the week, and gave their reactions to and reflections upon the community’s discussions, often drawing from specific blogs or forum posts. It felt like a panel at a conference, and I walked away feeling confident that the people who developed this MOOC are truly experts on the topic of elearning and digital cultures. Listening to them made me feel like I was part of something. It was exciting. The only thing I would change is to have had that Hangout on Day 1.  

Typing to Learn: A Technobiography

My mother is a something of a Jill-of-all-trades. She teaches piano lessons, does occasional work for a friend in real estate, and runs the books for an automotive shop. She also rides a Harley and plays in two rock bands, but that’s another story. She trained as an accountant in college, and for as long as I can remember she has done freelance CPA work, which means she’s had an office in the house. When I was little, the office was equipped with a desktop computer and one of those printers that printed on that fabulous green-white-green-white lined paper. I used to sit on the floor and peel off the perforated edges. 

As often as I could possibly manage, I would retrieve a hot-pink floppy disk from the filing cabinet and climb into Mama’s deep purple, faux-leather office chair. Concentration. I loved that game. It was memory and wheel-of-fortune all at once – you had to remember what pictures were on the other sides of the cards you’d already selected and when you found a match they disappeared, revealing a series of images that represented syllables and inevitably included an awl. The goal was to guess the phrase before you made all the cards disappear. 

 

There were disks with other games, too. Bubba enjoyed Oregon Trail, and I guess I did at first, but I always wound up dead from dysentery and I came to take it as a personal offense. Mama also bought us a learning game called Treehouse – I remember her being so pleased to have presented her children with such a technologically advanced educational activity. I enjoyed the speed typing games and vocabulary builders, but I was inevitably drawn back to that hot-pink floppy. 

Of course Mama’s desktop wasn’t the only technology in my childhood. We had two televisions, one in the living room and one in Mama and Daddy’s bedroom. When one of those got turned on, it was an event. Every Tuesday night, Daddy and Bubba would watch “SeaQuest” while Mama and I watched “Murder, She Wrote.” On Sunday nights we watched whatever made-for-TV movie was on the basic network (we never had cable). Commercials were spent running around to get a snack or go to the restroom, and someone would holler “SHOW” real loud when it came back on and we’d scurry to our seats. Not having cable never seemed to be an issue at the time, but as I got older I realized that I missed out on some cultural references that are still a big part of my friends’ lives today.  

We moved to a suburb when I was in fourth grade (1994), and that’s the first time I remember technology in school. We had typing class once a week in the computer lab, and I took a lot of pride in getting high-speed scores. Beyond that, though, I don’t recall using computers as part of my elementary education.

By the time I was in middle school we obtained a “family computer” that took up residence in the kitchen, I assume because Bubba and I needed it for homework. I don’t recall typing up assignments or conducting internet research, but I think it must have happened. I remember writing a paper about alpha-male gorillas, and I’m not sure how else I would have learned about them. (I also got “gorilla” and “armadillo” confused and thought gorillas were living under the house for a while.)

What I remember using that computer for was chatting with friends on AOL. I would sit for hours and chat—I was right at the age when girls stereotypically become big phone-talkers, but synchronous chat completely replaced the telephone. For whatever reason, I never ventured into other online communities like chat rooms, though I knew they existed. 

As I got older, technology became an increasingly central part of my life.  My parents bought me a cell phone when I was 16, and I have had one ever since (I have never owned landline). I continue my parents’ tradition of avoiding cable, but I have always owned a TV and I frequently watch shows through Hulu and Netflix. Facebook made its entrée into society my freshman year of college, and it quickly replaced AIM as my way of communicating with friends. I have moved around a lot since then, and Facebook has become a crucial part of maintaining distance relationships.

The ways in which I use technology for entertainment and communication feel completely natural, but even more natural is the way I use computers as tools for writing. My early enthusiasm with typing class and speed-typing games seems to have established a connection between writing and the computer that is irreversible. I rarely write by hand, and in fact feel uncomfortable doing so for anything longer than a grocery list. But something even stranger has happened—I feel as though I think best when I am typing. I nearly transcribe interesting meetings or classes, and I always “type through” ideas in a freewrite style. It is as though my learning style is tied to typing—instead of being a visual or auditory learner, I am a textual one, but not in the sense that I need to read to learn. I need to produce words to learn. And whether it is a symbol that represents a word or letters pressed by my fingers, to me, words exist on the screen.