Virtual Pure Land, Data Abyss
The morning light from Silicon Valley filtered through the vast glass curtain walls of Metaverse Technology's headquarters, illuminating the entire exhibition hall like a futuristic temple. Standing in the center of the exhibition hall, Cheng Han, wearing the latest VR headset, gazed upon a tranquil beach—a prototype for the "Spiritual Retreat Island" developed in collaboration between the Foundation and Metaverse Technology.
"Do you feel the humidity of the sea breeze?" Mark Hoffman, CEO of Metaverse Technologies, asked proudly. "We've simulated the negative ion concentration of the purest waters in the Maldives. And this—" He tapped the control panel, and the surroundings instantly transformed into the foothills of the Alps, covered in wildflowers. "Each scene has been carefully designed by psychologists to maximize the user's relaxation response."
Cheng Han took off his helmet, his eyes filled with wonder. "This truly goes beyond the boundaries of traditional psychotherapy."
When technology promises a perfect secluded paradise, shouldn’t we also ask: What is the price of this paradise?
The news of the collaboration sent shockwaves through the foundation. Luca immediately requested a video conference from Brussels.
"I've studied their user agreement," Luca said, his expression unusually serious. "There's a clause in it that allows for 'collection of necessary physiological data to improve service quality.' What is 'necessary'? Who defines it?"
Nila, who had just returned from the Arctic Circle, shared a more emotional observation: "Indigenous elders told me that true healing occurs in the real world, in the warmth shared between people. Will this virtual world make those who are already lonely further alienated from reality?"
But Kadir offers another perspective: "In the Gaza Strip, in the Ukrainian war zone, those traumatized people may never be able to go to the Maldives. If virtual reality can give them a moment of peace, why not?"
Faced with the disagreement, Cheng Han made a decision: to personally experience the project in depth, and at the same time let Luca form an independent ethics review team.
The first week of the experience was exhilarating. Cheng Han's team held the first online group therapy session on the "Spiritual Retreat Island." Refugees from war zones, anxiety sufferers in big cities, elderly people with mobility issues—those who struggle to get help in real life—all smiled with relief for the first time in the virtual world.
"Here, I can finally sleep peacefully." A mother from the war zone said in tears in the virtual sea of flowers.
However, a turning point occurred late one night in the third week. Cheng Han received an urgent report from the technical team: while monitoring data flow, they discovered that "Mind Retreat Island" was collecting far more data than agreed upon without the user's knowledge—including brainwave patterns, pupil changes, and even micro-expressions during emotional arousal.
The collapse of trust begins with betrayal hidden in the details.
Even more disturbing is that Metaverse Technology's chief scientist revealed their true purpose in a private conversation: "Mr. Cheng, imagine if we could build the world's largest emotional database, we could predict and even guide..."
Cheng Han didn't let him finish his sentence. That night, he called an emergency meeting of the core team.
“They don’t just want to help users,” Cheng Han said, his voice trembling with anger. “They want technology to control emotions.”
Luca cited legal documents: "According to the EU's GDPR and our ethical guidelines, we must terminate the cooperation immediately."
“But what about the users?” Kadir asked, “the people who find their only peace in the virtual world?”
Nila offered a compromise: "Could we develop our own? A completely ethical version?"
Reality gave them a cruel answer: budget assessments showed that developing a virtual healing system of the same level would require 60% of the foundation's annual budget and would take three years.
In the face of the gap between ideals and reality, compromise always comes knocking in the guise of "pragmatism".
Just when the team was at an impasse, Li Xiaoyu unexpectedly visited Silicon Valley. Instead of going to the luxurious headquarters of Metaverse Technology, she asked Cheng Han to take her to a place - an old community center next to Stanford University.
There, a group of young people are using the most basic VR equipment to create virtual scenes of their childhood homes for the elderly in the nursing home.
"This project has been running for five years," Li Xiaoyu said softly. "It doesn't have fancy visual effects or complex data collection. But it helps elderly people with dementia find an anchor for their memories."
She turned to Cheng Han. "Technology is never the problem. The problem is what we allow it to become. Metaverse Technology wants to build an empire, but what we need is a garden."
This sentence enlightened Cheng Han. When he returned to the negotiation table, he brought a brand new plan:
1.
Data sovereignty: All user data is hosted by the Foundation, and Metaverse Technology can only obtain anonymized aggregated analysis;
2.
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Algorithmic transparency: Every decision made by the emotion intervention algorithm must be explainable and traceable;
4.
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Hybrid model: Virtual experiences must be combined with real-world community activities.
6.
Unsurprisingly, Metaverse Technologies rejected these offers. "You're too naive," Hoffman sneered. "In this era, data is oil, and sentiment data is refined oil."
On the afternoon the negotiations broke down, Cheng Han walked alone on the streets of Silicon Valley. The setting sun shone golden on the logos of tech giants, but he felt a piercing chill.
Just as he was about to give up, a message popped up on his phone. It was from the mother in the war zone who had found peace on the "Spiritual Retreat Island," sent via translation software:
"Thank you for creating this peaceful place. Yesterday, I learned to breathe deeply on that virtual beach. Today, I taught it to my kids in the real bomb shelter. It helps."
Sometimes, the faintest light just illuminates the direction that we should persist in.
At that moment, Cheng Han understood: they could not give up exploration because of fear, nor could they lower their standards because of difficulties.
Back at the Foundation, he launched the "Pure Land Project"—a completely open-source, non-profit virtual psychological healing platform. While it lacks the luxury of Metaverse Technology, it boasts a global volunteer network, a commitment to ethical principles, and countless engineers willing to contribute code to its ideals.
Six months later, the first beta version was launched. The interface was simple, but every design had been reviewed by the ethics committee. The functionality was basic, but all data sovereignty remained entirely with the user.
During the demonstration session at the press conference, Cheng Han specially invited a special experiencer, Li Xiaoyu, who donned a simple VR headset and strolled through a Jiangnan water village hand-modeled by volunteers.
"This place isn't as sophisticated as Metaverse Technology," Cheng Han said apologetically, "but it's clean."
Li Xiaoyu took off the device, tears in her eyes. "No, it's more beautiful here. Because what I see are not codes, but countless hearts that want to help others."
That night, Cheng Han wrote in the project log:
We may never be able to create the most perfect virtual paradise, but we can ensure that every digital space we build will not become a new prison for the mind.
Outside the window, the lights of Silicon Valley still shone brightly. But what lit up in Cheng Han's heart at that moment was a different kind of light—less dazzling, but more enduring. It was a light ignited by principle and conscience, guiding countless hearts in the fog of the digital age.
“As we build a digital paradise, we must be careful that it does not become a new digital hell.”
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