I had avoided spoilers for weeks — my social feeds blocked, video strictly curated. I even stopped texting my gaming friends, worried that one of them would let something slip.

The Grand Theft Auto series wasn’t really known for surprise reveals, but this one was special — the first entry in the long running series that embraced immersive VR. It was also the first entry to take place in my home town: Grand Theft Auto Online: Stumptown.

For years I’d watched them add expansion after expansion for places I’d never visited. Kansas City (Flatland), Chicago (Horto ‘Burbs), even Salt Lake City was added before my town (Saint Lake City, which, did they even try?). But now I was going to experience my own city, in VR, and finally see if I could make it as a virtual criminal.

I got home from work, locked the apartment door, threw my keys on the grey, ‘mica counter, tossed my coat on the couch (it had been raining, but my couch had seen much worse than a little second-hand rain) and picked my VR kit from the charging cradle, slipping on the gloves before placing the visor over my head, replacing my shoe-box apartment with my default virtual home (a cabin the cascades, before the fires, obviously).

I sighed as the familiar sights and sounds enveloped me. The breeze rustling the leaves, making the trees sway. Glimpses of clear blue sky between their branches. Smoke drifting up from the chim–

The screen went black and, in red letters, “UNAUTHORIZED” appeared, blinking.

“Oh come on,” I slapped the side of the visor, blinked my eyes hard and opened them wide for the passive retina scan. The screen flickered to the cabin, back to black, then finally the cabin again. I decided not to dawdle and walked into the cabin, glancing at the fireplace before b-lining towards my game shelf. The games were set with the box art facing out (box art? When was the last time a game came in a box?), and each one had a discrete sticker on it. There was GTAO: Stumptown and the sticker on it read “40 creds/hour.”

I did some mental math. With what I’d saved up I could play for three hours. 3:15 if I stuck to ramen for the next week. I touched the cover, authorized the payment with a blink and a glance, and then watched the box art expand to fill the space in front of me. I stepped through.

I was in an apartment smaller than mine. No, apartment wasn’t right … I tapped one of the walls and it made a dull thunk. Cardboard. Maybe that new fungus-based fiberboard Amazon was using that had quickly been co-opted by … oh no. I burst out the door (destroying it in the process) and looked around. Identical cubes stretched in either direction, lining a narrow, muddy walk. Although they all looked about the same they leaned at odd angles. Some were patched. Some had blankets for roofs. In gaps between cardboard rooms were tents with rips in the fabric, duct-tape preserving whatever semblance of privacy they had. A child peeked out of the door directly across from mine.

“Ooh, you need to fix that,” she said with a slight lisp, then shut the door softly. I turned around to look at my now door-less house. I heard her voice again from behind me “There’s a convenience store down the road. A little tape would get you fixed right up.”

I started trudging through the mud. I looked down and tapped my right pocket and a number appeared, accompanied by the sounds of a cash register: $5.00. Great. And what were the odds that duct tape cost five dollars?

Even though this wasn’t the escape I had hoped, I still marveled at the world around me. Each dwelling was unique, even down to tiny tear textures around the door frames. I caught snippets of conversation as I passed by individuals and families. I stopped for a second and listened.

“You think they’ll come through today?”

“It’s Tuesday, they always come through.”

“What do you think they’ll have?”

“Food. It’ll be food.”

“Sounds delicious.”

I shook my head and moved on. It definitely wasn’t the escape I had hoped for. But these games always started slow. I just hoped I could make my way out of here in less than three hours.

“Uncanny, isn’t it?” I jumped and turned. Someone with a different face, but clothes identical to mine, had fallen into step beside me. Another player.

“What’s that?”

“The conversations,” the other player’s face shifted into something that was just about, but not quite, a smile. “You know I heard they all–“

“Spoilers!” I said, covering my ears. It was instinct.

“Oh no, I’m not giving plot details away or anything. I was just going to say, this is the first Rockstar game where all the NPC dialog is created on the fly by one of those generative AIs.”

“Really,” I stopped and put my hands on my hips. “I feel like it was just a few years ago they were saying they’d never employ AIs — something about the sanctity of their storytelling?”

He laughed. “Yeah, something like that. But I think they ran up against a couple of hard realities. Number one, it’s hard to find anyone who can write something more complicated than a caption on a selfie these days.”

I grunted.

“And two, this little thing called cold hard cash. This game is supposed to have … 10,000 hours of unique dialog? Something like that? You could have people write it, and other people edit it, and other people voice act, and other people record, and other people edit some more, and other people model it, and other people–“

“I get it,” I hunched my shoulders.

“Or you have an AI do everything. Probably cost them less than it would’ve cost for a single writer.”

“Right, cloud-sourcing is always cheaper. A lot cheaper …” I trailed off, then shook my head and spoke again without turning. “What do you do?”

“I think I’m some kind of … hobo?”

“I don’t think that term is really used anymore. And I meant IRL,” I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, right. Old folks home,” he laughed. “They haven’t made an AI that can wipe a 90 year old butt yet!”

“Lucky you,” I said. I recalled my own slide down the social ladder. “I’m going to, you know, get going, uh …” I glanced at him. A text box appeared above his head like a halo “… C@P’NCR0TCH420.”

“You can call me Cap. I’m going to hang back and … hey, do you think the AI will model NPC’s having sex?”

“We can only hope,” I said through gritted teeth, and sped up until I was running.

The store’s front door had wrought iron bars protecting broken glass. It opened with a buzz after a brief wait.

The shopkeeper had a yellow exclamation point hovering over his head, but I wanted to take a second to see how the world behaved before I got swept up in a cutscene. I walked down one aisle, looking at the canned goods. I picked one up, squinting as I turned it over in my hands.

“You know the duct tape is two aisles over,” another voice from behind me. I turned, glad to see it wasn’t CAP’NCROTCH420. Just looked like a mother with a small child in a dirty jumper.

“Thanks, I’m just looking,” I held up the can of food.

“MMM, Spaghetti-Qs, my favorite!” said the little girl, rubbing her tummy. I glanced at the can again. Was this product placement?

“Ah, you’re looking at the variety of food available, right?” the mom nodded down the aisle. “Lots of stuff here.”

“Sure,” I said, putting the can back.

“Lots of nutritious human food. Look at the back, real ingredients! Did you know the food was created by an AI?” she smiled.

“Like … this is real food?”

“Of course,” she said. “We’re in the real world. This is real. Why wouldn’t the food be real? And I bet it’s more delicious than any food you may have encountered in any kind of … dream state you may have experienced that’s incongruent with this world. This real world with real food for real people, but all created by an AI!”

“You mean my favorite food in the world, Spaghetti-Qs, was made by an AI?” the little girl’s eyes widened.

“That’s right! Also the layout of this store. I bet you didn’t want to find the duct tape right away, did you? You wanted to peruse a little!” her smile somehow, impossibly, got wider.

“I mean, I did just say –“

“And the layout of this store was also made by an AI! Designed in such a way as to please every customer who comes in by allowing them exactly what they want. Perusal!”

“OK, I need to go,” I said, and turned.

“Duct tape is two aisles over!” she called as I turned the corner and ducked down behind the next aisle.

“What a funny man,” came the child’s voice.

“He’s a bum who doesn’t understand true quality and innov … ,” the mother’s voice faded with their receding footsteps.

I waited a few more moments, glanced at my watch, then stood and moved down the aisle. It was cereal here, I reached towards a box and —

“It just looks delicious, doesn’t it?” a man stood beside me wearing a bowler had, button up shirt and suspenders.

“This?” I glanced at what was in my hand, sighed, then held up the box of Numerology Chocology. The front showed a man with a calculator and incongruously long incisors holding a spoonful of chocolate numbers, some of which oozed over the side of the spoon. A callout advertised “70% more choco-flesh.”

“Yeah, it looks delicious,” he sighed. “Too bad I’m allergic. Gluten sensitivity, wouldn’t you know. It’s a genetic condition, passed down from my mother-in-law.”

I put the box back on the shelf. “Yeah, I suppose –“

“You want to know why it looks so delicious?”

“The choco-flesh?” I cocked an eyebrow.

“No, my man. Because the box art was designed by an AI! Did you know that AIs can do that?”

My skin began to crawl.

“I was aware they could generate images,” I said.

“Not just any images! Look at how delicious that looks! Look at the numbers! The chocolate! The spoon! I could just eat the spoon right up. Isn’t it amazing that an AI doesn’t know what deliciousness is because they can’t taste, but they’re able to perfectly model a food that looks absolutely scrumptious?” he had closed in on my now, I could almost feel what would definitely have been stale breath on my cheek.

“The image looks delicious. The recipe is also made by AI, I’m sure if you tried it you’d like it. Even the shape of the cereal has been generated by an AI to pack the most delicious numbers into one cardboard rectangle! It’s astounding!” he pulled the box back off the shelf and held it towards me. “Open it up! Hold the non-euclidian shape of the cereal in your hands! Feel them run between your five distinct fingers like grains of sand,” he slid one finger under the cardboard flap, lifted it up, then leaned the box towards me. Inside was a mass of brown shapes that turned in on themselves like a nightmare MC Escher might have had after taking some particularly strong mushrooms. They seemed to pull me into them, my gaze trapped, looking at the junction between where two chocolate shapes merged to become four more chocolate shapes, expanding out until it filled my whole field of vision, until it seemed to fill my whole —

“Hold on a second!” a face popped up above the next aisle over. I never realized how relieved I could be to see someone named “CAP’NCR0TCH420.”

“Oh thank. –” I pushed the box away and it fell, scattering squirming chocolate spaghetti all over the floor. I averted my gaze.

“HOLD ON A SECOND!” Cap came around the end cap and pushed the bowler-hat wearing man out of the way. “Sorry, my friend here is having a rough time.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me with an expression that was very nearly concern. “Are you guys talking about how great the AI is in this game without me? Have you seen how delicious the food looks on the cereal boxes? Also, duct tape is one more aisle over.”