Paul Boddie's Free Software-related blog

In the past few years, in my exploration of computing history, the case of the Norwegian computing manufacturer Norsk Data has been a particular fascination. Growing up in 1980s Britain, it is entirely possible that the name will have appeared in newspapers and magazines I may have seen or read, although I cannot remember any particular occurrences. It is also easy to mix it up with Nokia Data: a company that was eventually acquired by the United Kingdom’s own computing behemoth, ICL.

Looking back, however, and it turns out that Norsk Data even managed to get systems into institutions not too many miles from where I grew up, and the company did have a firm commercial presence in the UK, finding niches in various industries and forms of endeavour. Having now lived in Norway for a considerable amount of time, it is perhaps more surprising that Norsk Data is almost as forgotten, and leaves almost as few traces, in its home country.

When I arrived in Norway, I gave no thought whatsoever to Norsk Data, even though I had been working at an organisation that had been one of the company’s most prominent customers and the foundation for its explosive growth during the 1970s and 1980s. But my own path through the Norwegian computing sector may well have crossed those of the company’s many previous employees, and in fact, one former employer of mine was part of a larger group that had acquired parts of the disintegrating Norsk Data empire.

It might come as a surprise that a company with over 4000 employees at its peak, many of them presumably in Oslo, and with annual revenues of almost 3 billion Norwegian crowns (around $450 million), would crumble within years and leave so little behind to show for itself. Admittedly, some of the locations of the company’s facilities have been completely redeveloped in recent years. But one might have expected an enduring cultural or social legacy.

In looking back, we might make some observations about a phenomenon that shares certain elements with events in other countries and other companies, along with more general observations about technological aspiration, contrasting the aspirations of that earlier era with today’s “innovation” culture, where companies arguably have much more mundane goals.

Big Claims by Small People

One of my motivations for looking into the history of Norsk Data arose from studying some of the rhetoric about its achievements and its influences on mainstream technology and wider society, these intersecting with CERN and the World Wide Web. There are some that have dared to claim that the Web was practically invented on Norsk Data systems, and with that, imaginations run riot and other bold claims are made. I personally strongly dislike such behaviour.

When Apple devotees, for example, insist that Apple invented a range of technologies, the obligation is then put on others to correct the ignorant statements concerned and to act to prevent the historical record from being corrupted. So, no, Apple did not “invent” overlapping windows. And when corrected, one finds oneself obliged to chase down all the usual caveats and qualifications in response that are so often condensed into “but really they did”. So, no, Apple were not the first to demonstrate systems where the background windows remained “live” and updated, either.

Why can’t people be satisfied with the achievements that were made by their favourite companies? Is it not enough to respect the work actually done, instead of extrapolating and maximising a claim that then extends to a claim of “invention” and thus dominance? Such behaviour is not only disrespectful to the others who also did such work and made such discoveries, potentially at an earlier time, but it is disrespectful to the collaborative environment of the era, many of whose participants would not have seen themselves as adversaries. It is even disrespectful to the idols of the devotees making their exaggerated claims.

And if people revisited history, instead of being so intent on rewriting it, they might learn that such claims were litigated – literally – in decades past. Attempts to exclude other companies from delivering common technologies left Apple with little more than a trashcan. Maybe the company’s lawyers had wished that the perverse gesture of dragging a disk icon to a dustbin icon to eject a floppy disk might, for once, have just erased the company’s opportunistic, wasteful and flimsy lawsuit.

Questions of Heritage

What intrigued me most were some of the claims by Norsk Data itself. The company started out in the late 1960s, introducing the Nord-1, a 16-bit minicomputer, for industrial control applications. Numerous claims of “firsts” are made for that model in the context of minicomputing (virtual memory, built-in floating-point arithmetic support), perhaps contentious and subject to verification themselves, but it was the introduction of its successor where such claims start to tread on more delicate territory.

The Nord-5, introduced in 1972, has occasionally been claimed as the first 32-bit minicomputer. In fact, it could only operate in conjunction with a Nord-1, with the combination potentially being regarded as a minicomputing system. At the time, and for the handful of customers involved, this combination was described as the NORDIC system: a name that was apparently not used much if ever again. In practice, this was one or more 16-bit minicomputers with an attached 32-bit arithmetic processor.

Such clarifications might seem pedantic, but people do have strong opinions on such matters. Whereas Digital Equipment Corporation’s VAX, introduced in 1977, might be regarded as an influential machine in the proliferation of 32-bit minicomputing, occasionally and incorrectly cited as the first system of its kind, it is generally conceded that the Interdata 7/32 and 8/32, introduced in 1973, have a more substantial claim on any such title. Certainly, these may well have been the first minicomputers priced at $10,000 or below. Meanwhile, the NORDIC system cost over $600,000 for the Norwegian Meteorological Institute to acquire.

One might argue that NORDIC was not a typical minicomputing system, nor priced accordingly. And it does raise the observation that if one is to attach a component with certain superior characteristics to an existing component, as much as this attached component complements the capabilities of the existing component, the combination is not necessarily equivalent to a coherent system built entirely with such superior characteristics in the first place. We may return to this topic later, not least because certain phenomena have a habit of recurring in the computing industry.

As much as one might say in categorising the Nord-5, it was an interesting machine. Thanks to those who took an interest in archiving Norsk Data’s heritage, we are able to look at descriptions of the machine’s architecture, its instruction set, and so on. For those who have encountered systems from an earlier time and found them constraining and austere, the Nord-5 is surprising in a few ways. Most prominently, it has 64 general-purpose registers of 32 bits in size, pairs of which may be grouped to form 64-bit floating-point registers where required.

The Nord-5 has only a small number of instruction formats, although some of them seem rather haphazardly organised. It turns out that this is where the machine’s implementation, based heavily on discrete logic integrated circuits and the SN74181 arithmetic logic unit in particular, dictates the organisation of the machine. One might have thought that the limitations of the technology would have restrained the designers, making them focus on a limited feature set so as to minimise chip count and system cost, but exotic functionality exists that is difficult to satisfactorily explain or rationalise at first glance.

For instance, indirect addressing, familiar from various processor architectures, tends to involve an instruction accessing a particular memory location (or pair of locations), reading the contents of that location (or those locations), and then treating this value (or those values) as a memory address. Normally, one would then operate on the contents of this final address. However, in the Nord-5 architecture, such indirection can be done over and over again, so that instead of just one value being loaded and interpreted as an address, the value found at this address may be interpreted as an address, and its value may be interpreted as an address. And so on, for a maximum of sixteen levels, all traversed upon executing a single instruction over a number of clock cycles!

I must admit that I am not particularly familiar with mainframe and minicomputer architectures, but certain characteristics do seem similar to other machines. For example, the PDP-10 or DECsystem-10, a 36-bit mainframe from Digital introduced in 1966, has sixteen general-purpose registers and only two instruction formats. It also has floating-point arithmetic support using pairs of registers. Later, Digital would discontinue this line of computers in favour of its increasingly popular and profitable VAX range of computers: a development that would parallel Norsk Data’s own technological strategy in some ways.

The Nord-5 and its successor, the largely similar Nord-50, were regarded as commercially unsuccessful, although one might argue that the former gave the company access to funding at a crucial point in its history. They also delivered respectable floating-point arithmetic performance, bringing about considerations of making them available for minicomputers from other manufacturers. Described in some reporting as “a cheaper smaller scale version of the CDC Cyber 76 or Cray-1“, even if we ignore the hype, one can consider how pursuing this floating-point accelerator business might have influenced the eventual fate of the company.

Role Models and Rivals

In potentially lucrative sales environments like CERN, where Norsk Data gained a lucrative foothold during the 1970s, the company would have seen a lot of business going the way of companies like Digital, IBM and Hewlett-Packard. Such companies would have been almost like role models, indicating areas in which Norsk Data might operate, and providing recipes for winning business and keeping it.

Indeed, when discussing Norsk Data, it is almost impossible to avoid introducing Digital Equipment Corporation into the discussion, not least because Norsk Data constantly made comparisons of itself with Digital, favourably compared its products to those of Digital, and quite clearly aspired to be like Digital to the point of seemingly trying to emulate the more established company. However, it might be said that this approach rather depended on what Digital’s own strategy was perceived to be, and whether the people at Norsk Data actually understood Digital’s business and products.

Much has been written about Digital’s own fall from grace, being a company with sought-after products that helped define an industry, only to approach the end of the 1980s in a state of near crisis, with its products being outperformed by the insurgent Unix system vendors and with its own customers wanting a more convincing Unix story from their supplier. In certain respects, Norsk Data’s fortunes followed a similar path, and we might then be left wondering if in trying to be like Digital, the company inadvertently copied its larger rival’s flaws and replicated its mistakes.

One apparent perception of Digital was that of a complete provider of technology, and it is certainly apparent that Digital was the kind of supplier who would gladly provide everything from hardware and the operating system, through compilers, tools and productivity applications, all the way to removal services for computing facilities. Certainly, computing investments at the minicomputing and mainframe level were considerable, and having a capable vendor was essential.

It was apparently often remarked that “nobody ever got fired for buying IBM”, but it could also be said that buying IBM meant that a whole category of worries could be placed on the supplier. Indeed, Digital was perceived as only offering potential solutions through their technology, as opposed to the kind of complete, working solutions that IBM would be selling. Nevertheless, opportunities were identified in various areas where the bulk of such solutions were ready to deploy. Digital sought to enter the office automation market with its ALL-IN-1 software, competing with IBM’s established products. Naturally, Norsk Data wanted a piece of this action, too.

The business model was not the only way that Norsk Data seemed obsessed with Digital. Company financial reports highlighted the superior growth figures in comparison to Digital and other computer companies. The introduction of the VAX in 1977 demanded a response, and the company set to work on a genuine 32-bit “superminicomputer” as a result. This effort dragged out, however, only eventually delivering the ND-500 series in 1981.

The ND-500 introduced a new architecture incompatible with that of the Nord-5 and Nord-50, trading the large, general-purpose register set with a smaller set of registers partitioned into specialised groups acting as accumulators, index registers, extension registers, base registers, stack and frame registers, and so on. Although resembling an extended form of Norsk Data’s 16-bit architecture, no effort had been made to introduce instruction set compatibility between the ND-500 and that existing architecture.

The instruction set itself aimed for the orthogonality for which the VAX had become famous, implemented using microcode and supported by a variable-length instruction encoding. Instructions, consisting of instruction code and operand specifier units, could be a single byte or “several thousand bytes” in length. A variety of addressing modes and data types were supported in the large array of instructions and their variants.

And yet each ND-500 “processor” in any given configuration was still coupled with a 16-bit ND-100 “front-end”, this being an updated Nord-10 used for input/output and running much of the operating system, thus perpetuating the architectural relationship between the 16- and 32-bit components previously seen in the NORDIC system from several years earlier. In effect, the ND-500 still favoured computational workloads, and without the front-end unit, it could not be considered a minicomputing system in its own right.

Going Vertical

One distinct difference between the apparent strategy of Norsk Data and that of Digital, perhaps based on misconceptions of Digital’s approach or maybe founded on simple opportunism, was the way that the Norsk Data sought to be a complete, “vertically integrated” supplier in various specialised markets, whereas Digital could more accurately be described as a platform company. In one commentary I discovered while browsing, I found these pertinent remarks:

“In the old “Vertical” business model a major supplier would develop everything in house from basic silicon chips right through to … financial applications software packages. This model was clearly absurd. A company may be good at developing or providing several of the technologies and services in the value chain but it is inconceivable that any single company could be the best at doing everything.”

They originate from a representative of ICL, describing that company’s adoption of open standards and Unix as “a strategic platform”. Companies like ICL had their origins in earlier times when computer companies were almost expected to do everything for a customer, in part due to a lack of interoperability between systems, in part due to a traditional coupling of hardware and software, and in part due to a lack of expertise in information systems in the broader economy, making it a requirement for those companies to apply their proprietary technologies to the customer’s situation and to tackle each case as it came along.

Gradually, software became seen as an independent technology and product in its own right, interoperability materialised, and opportunities emerged for autonomous “third parties” in the industry. The “horizontal” model, where customers could choose and combine the technologies that were most appropriate for them, was resisted by various established companies, but in a dynamic market, they were eventually made to confront their own limitations.

In historical reviews of Norsk Data and its business, such as Tor Olav Steine’s “Fenomenet Norsk Data” (“The Norsk Data Phenomenon”), there is surprisingly little use of the word “solution” in the sense of an information technology system taken into practical use, which is a word that is used a lot in certain areas of the computer business. In those areas, like consultancy, the nature of the business may revolve entirely around the provision and augmentation of existing products to provide something a customer can use: what we call a “solution”. Such businesses simply could not exist without software and hardware platforms to deliver such solutions.

Where “solution” is used in such a way in Steine’s account, it is in the context of a company like Norsk Data choosing not to sell “solutions into specific markets” like the banking sector, identifying this a critical weakness of the company’s strategy. Certainly, a company like Norsk Data had to be adaptable and to accommodate initiatives to supply such sectors, but the mindset exhibited is that the company had to back up the salesforce with a “massive effort” to solve all of the customer’s problems. This was precisely the kind of “vertical” supplier that ICL and IBM had been out of historical necessity, entrusted with such endeavours, but also burdened by society’s continuing expectations of such companies.

Indeed, it says a great deal that IBM was the principal competition in the sector used to illustrate this alleged weakness of Norsk Data. IBM’s own crisis arrived in the early 1990s with a then-record financial loss and waves of reorganisations, somewhat decoupling the product divisions of the company from its growing services and solutions divisions, also gradually causing the company to adopt open systems and technologies. Its British counterpart in such traditional sectors, ICL, dabbled in open systems and Unix, largely keeping them away from its mainframe business, but pivoted strongly at the start of the 1990s, perhaps influenced by Fujitsu – its partner, investor and, eventually, owner – to adopt the SPARC architecture and System V Unix.

Norsk Data, however, stuck with vertical integration to its initial benefit and then its later detriment. The company had done some good business on the back of acquisitions in certain sectors – typesetting systems, computer-aided design/manufacturing – where opportunities were identified to migrate existing products to Norsk Data’s hardware and to ostensibly boost the performance that may have been lacking in the existing offerings, but the company found itself struggling to repeat such successes. In markets like the UK, it encountered indifference from software companies, who apparently perceived the company to be “too small”, and tried to invest in and cultivate smaller companies as vehicles for its technology.

Here, there may have been a possible lack of awareness or acceptance that instead of being “too small”, Norsk Data was perhaps too niche or too non-standard, in an era of emerging standards. After all, such standards increasingly defined software and hardware platforms on which other companies would build. The fixation on vertical market opportunities, having something that competitors did not, and “striking a knockout” in competitive situations, seems rather incompatible with cultivating an ecosystem around one’s products.

Another trait is apparent from discussion of the company, that being the tendency of selling in one set of products to a customer so as to be able to try and sell the customer another set of products. Thus, a customer buying one of the vertical market products might be coaxed into adopting various other strategic Norsk Data products, like the celebrated NOTIS suite of productivity applications. And with the potential for niche products to create opportunities for further sales and the proliferation of the company’s core technologies, Norsk Data got itself into trouble.

Personal Computing the Hard Way

Despite the increasing prominence of personal computing in the late 1970s and early 1980s, Norsk Data had remained largely dismissive of the trend, as many traditional vendors had also been initially. Minicomputer vendors sold multi-user machines that ran applications for each of the users, communicating output, usually character-based, to simple display terminals whose users would respond with keystrokes that would be communicated back to the “host”, thus providing an interactive computing environment. With shared storage, applications could provide a degree of collaboration absent from the average, standalone microcomputer. What exactly could a standalone microcomputer do that a terminal attached to a minicomputer could not?

Alongside this, applications that would become familiar to microcomputer users had emerged in minicomputer environments. For instance, word processing systems had demonstrated productivity benefits to organisations, providing far more flexibility and efficiency over typewriters and secretarial pools (also known as typing pools, so no, nothing to do with splashing around). Minicomputer environments could provide shared resources for still-expensive devices like printers, particularly high-end ones, and the shared storage permitted a library of materials to be accessed and curated.

From such easy triumphs in computerisation, much was anticipated from the nebulous practice of office automation. But perhaps because of the fragmented needs and demands of organisations, all-conquering big office systems could not hold off the gradual erosion of minicomputing dominance by the intrusion of microcomputers. Introduced at a relatable, personal level, one might argue that a personal computer as a simple product or commodity, along with software that was similarly packaged, may have been more obviously adaptable to some kinds of organisations, particularly small ones without strong expectations of what computer systems should do and how they might behave.

Indeed, where traditional suppliers of computers were perceived by newcomers as unapproachable or intimidating, microcomputers offered a potentially gentler introduction, as amusingly noted in one Norwegian article featuring IBM, Digital, HP and Norsk Data. For example, correspondence, documentation and other written records may have been cumbersome to prepare even with electronic typewriters – these providing only crude editing functions – and depending on the levels of enthusiasm for alternatives and frustration with the current situation, it would have been natural to acquire a personal computer with accessories, and to try out word processing and other applications to see what worked best for any given person, office, department, or organisation.

(A mixture of personal computing systems might have eventually generated interoperability problems, amongst others, but the agility that personal computers afforded organisations would potentially inform larger and more ambitious attempts to introduce technology later on.)

Personal computers began to shape user expectations of what computers of all kinds could do. Indeed, it is revealing that in treatments of the office automation market from the early 1980s, microcomputers keep recurring, and personal workstations – particularly the Xerox Star – set the tone for whatever office automation was meant to be. This was undoubtedly due to the unavoidable focus on the user interface that microcomputing and personal computing demanded. After all, personal computing cannot really be personal without considering the user!

Crucially, however, Xerox appeared to understand that one product could not be right for everyone, thus pitching a range of systems for a variety of users. The Xerox 860 focused largely on traditional word processing applications. The Xerox 8010 (or Star) was a networked workstation for sophisticated users. The company realised, particularly with IBM poised to move into personal computing, that a need existed for a more affordable product, leading to the much cheaper Xerox 820 running the established CP/M operating system. Although the Xerox 820 appears to have been considered a disappointment by commentators, who were perhaps expecting something more revolutionary, it did appear to signal that Xerox took affordable personal computing seriously, and the company was not alone in formulating such a product.

Digital tried a few different approaches to personal computing, two of which involved applications of their minicomputer architectures: the PDP-8-based DECmate, and the PDP-11-based DEC Professional. But it was their third and perhaps least proprietary approach, the DEC Rainbow, that perhaps stood the best chance of success, following a similar path to the Xerox 820, but taking the Zilog Z80-based core of such a machine and extending it with a companion Intel 8088 processor for increased versatility.

Such hybrid systems were not uncommon for a brief period at the start of the 1980s: established CP/M users would need Z80 compatibility, whereas new users and new software would have benefited from the 8088 running CP/M-86 or MS-DOS. The Rainbow was not a success, hampered by Digital’s proprietary instincts. Personally, I found it surprising to learn that the machine had a monochrome display as standard. Even with the RGB colour option, it would have rendered its own logo relatively unsatisfactorily!

What was Norsk Data’s response to the personal computing bandwagon? A telling quote can be found in an article from a 1985 newsletter:

“We do not believe in “the universal workstation” that can solve all problems for all user categories. Alternative hardware and software combinations seem to be the right answer. The functionality requirements for the personal workstations are definitely not satisfied by the “traditional PC”. For the majority of users today, the NOTIS terminal is the best alternative for a personal workstation that is integrated with the rest of the organization.”

The first two sentences seem reasonable enough, and the third could certainly have seemed reasonable at the time. But then comes the absurd, self-serving conclusion: a proprietary character terminal is the “best alternative” to something like the Xerox Star or its successor, the Xerox 6085 “Daybreak”, introduced in 1985, or other actual workstation products arriving on the market.

Evidently, decision-makers at the company remained fixated on what they considered their blockbuster products. But the personal computing trend was not about to disappear. The company’s first attempt at a product was initiated in 1983 and released in 1984, involving a rebadged IBM-PC-compatible from Columbia Computers, sold “half-heartedly” and was perhaps more influential within the company than outside.

Then, in 1986, came the product that only Norsk Data could make: the Butterfly workstation, featuring an Intel 80286 processor and running MS-DOS and contemporary Windows, but also featuring two expansion cards that implemented the ND-110 minicomputer processor to run the proprietary SINTRAN operating system. Naturally, such a workstation, with its built-in minicomputer, was intended to run the cherished NOTIS software, and a variant known as the Teamstation permitted the connection of four terminals to share in such goodness.

One can almost understand the thinking behind such products. There was an increasing clamour for approachable computing, with relatively low starting costs, and with buyers starting out with a single machine and seeing whether they liked the experience. Providing something whose experience for a single user could be expanded to cover another four users might have seemed like a reasonable idea. But to make sense to customers, those extra terminals would need to be inexpensive and offer something that another four personal computers might not, and the software involved would have to be better than the kinds of programs that ran natively on personal computers at the time. Here, the beliefs of those at Norsk Data and those of potential customers could easily have been rather different.

“Norsk Data didn’t buy Wordplex for nothing.” Norsk Data perhaps inadvertently played into 1980s stereotypes when boasting about having loads of money. Wordplex was a struggling word processing systems vendor, and the acquisition did not lead to the happy marriage of convenience – or otherwise – that was promised.

Turning Something into Nothing

Against the industry tide, it seems that the company did what came most naturally, seeking growth for its own applications amongst a captive customer audience. Thus, amidst a refinancing exercise at word processing supplier Wordplex, that turned into a takeover opportunity for Apricot Computers, Norsk Data barged in with a more valuable offer, leaving Apricot to withdraw from the contest, presumably with some relief. Wordplex, one of the success stories in an earlier phase of office automation, was struggling financially but had an enviable customer base in a market where Norsk Data had wanted a greater presence than it had previously managed to attain.

What the exact plan was for Wordplex is not entirely clear. The company had its own product roadmap, centred on its Zilog Z8000-based Series 8000 systems, initially running Wordplex’s proprietary operating system. Wordplex evidently acknowledged the emergence of Unix and sought to introduce Xenix for its systems, chosen perhaps for its continued support for the aging Z8000 architecture. Norsk Data’s contribution seems to have been to sell their own machines to “stand beside or stack vertically” on the Series 8000 machines, offering what looked suspiciously like the NOTIS suite. One could easily imagine that Wordplex’s product range was unlikely to receive much further development after that.

Commentators associated with Norsk Data seem to regard Wordplex as something of a misadventure. Steine goes as far as to accuse the Wordplex management of subverting the organisation and pursuing their own agenda, as opposed to getting on with their new duties of selling Norsk Data’s systems to those valuable customers. Yet he does seem to accept that by pushing new systems onto Wordplex’s customers, computing departments pushed back on the additional complexity these new, proprietary systems would introduce, although Steine seems to attribute such pushback more on an unwillingness to tolerate new vendors in their computer rooms.

Perhaps Wordplex’s management stuck to what they knew because they just weren’t given better tools for the job. Existing customers would want to see some continuity, even if their users would eventually see themselves migrated onto other technology. In the end, Norsk Data’s perceived opportunities never materialised, and Wordplex customers presumably saw the writing on the wall and migrated to other systems. The dedicated word processing business was being disrupted by low-cost personal computers either dressed up like word processors, in the case of the Amstrad PCW, or providing more general functionality, maybe even in a networked configuration.

It is telling that in the documentary covering the takeover, a remark is made about how Norsk Data seemed inexperienced at acquisitions and the task of integrating distinct corporate cultures, and yet the company had, in fact, acquired other companies to fuel its rapid growth. But still, it is apparent that entities like Comtec and Technovision remained distinct silos within the larger organisation. I have personal familiarity with one institutional customer of Comtec, although it may have been a faint memory by the time I interacted with its users.

That customer was CERN’s publishing section, responsible for the weekly Bulletin and other output, who had adopted the NORTEXT typesetting system with some success. In 1985, these users were gradually trying to adopt various NOTIS applications, expressing a form of cautious optimism. By 1986, with an audit of CERN’s information systems in progress, these users were facing an upgrade of NORTEXT that required terminals designed for NOTIS, as well as enhancements for NOTIS that stressed their older, 16-bit ND-100 series hardware, having been developed primarily for the newer, 32-bit, ND-500 systems.

More investment was requested to take advantage of newer hardware, increased storage, and to provide more terminals. Indeed, the introduction of ND-500 models would help to rationalise the hardware situation, reduce maintenance costs and demands, and provide better services to those users. But at the same time, amidst a “lively discussion”, the shortcomings of NOTIS were noted, that Norsk Data were “unlikely to satisfy the needs of the administration in terms of fully automated office functions such as agenda, calendars, conference scheduling”, and that better integration was needed with the growing Macintosh community inside CERN.

Indeed, the influence of the graphical user interface, and the success of the Macintosh in delivering a coherent platform for developers and users, put companies wedded to character-based terminal applications on the back foot. Graphical applications were the natural medium of such platforms, whereas companies like Norsk Data struggled to accommodate such applications within their paradigm, suggesting upgrades to more costly graphical terminals. At best, the result added around $1,000 to the cost of the terminal and merely offered an “experimental” and narrow attempt at being “Macintosh like”, in a world where potential users were more likely to opt for the real thing instead.

Despite the mythology around the Mac, the platform was, like many others, still finding its feet and lacking numerous desirable capabilities. The mid-1980s was a fluid era for the graphical personal computer, and although a similar mythology developed around the Amiga, which was more capable than the Mac in several respects, success for a platform demanded a combination of technology, applications, the convenience of making such applications, and a demand for them.

On the dominant IBM-compatible platform, it took a while for a dominant graphical layer to assert itself, leaving observers attempting to track the winner from candidates such as VisiOn, GEM, Windows, OS/2 and NewWave. It is perhaps unsurprising that Norsk Data had no ready answer, and that even as it introduced its own personal computers running DOS and early Windows software, it was merely waiting for an industry consensus to shake out. Other strategies could have been followed, however: vendors in Norsk Data’s situation chose to enter the workstation market, which is a topic to be considered in its own right.

Another company that struggled with personal computing was ICL. Having acquired some interesting products, such as those made by Singer Business Machines – a division of the Singer Corporation, perhaps most famous for its sewing machines – the same division, then operating as part as ICL, made a system that formed the basis of ICL’s Distributed Resource System product family. In the initial DRS 20 range, computers with 8085 processors running CP/M would run applications and access other machines acting as file servers over ICL’s proprietary Macrolan network.

Such solutions were not always well received by the personal computing media. Expectations that ICL would bring its market position to bear on the rapidly developing industry led to disappointment when the company introduced the first DRS models, drawing suggestions that the diskless “workstations” would make rather competitive personal computers, if only ICL were to remove the “nearly £1000” network card and replace it with a disk controller. Later models would upgrade the processor to the 8086 family and run Concurrent DOS. Low-end models did indeed get disk drives, but did not break out into the standalone personal computer market.

Instead, ICL also decided to sell a different set of products, licensed from a company called Rair, as its own Personal Computer series, and these even utilised similar technologies to its initial DRS line-up, such as the 8085, CP/M, and MP/M, but offered eight serial ports for connected terminals instead of network connectivity. Rair’s rise to prominence perhaps occurred through the introduction of the Rair Black Box, to which a terminal had to be attached in order to use the system. A repackaged version formed the basis of the first ICL PC.

ICL appear to have been rather more agile than Norsk Data at introducing upgrades to their PC and DRS families. The PC range evolved to include models like the exotic-sounding Quattro, still trying to cater to office environments wanting to serve applications to terminals in a relatively inexpensive way that was, nevertheless, seen as less than persuasive in an era where personal computing had now established itself. Eventually, ICL reconciled itself to producing IBM-compatible PCs. In the early 1990s, I encountered some of these in a brief school-era “work shadowing” stay at a municipal computing department which predictably operated an ICL mainframe and some serious Xerox printing hardware.

Meanwhile, the DRS range gained a colour graphical workstation running the GEM desktop software on Concurrent DOS. GEM was a viable product adopted by a variety of companies including Atari, Amstrad and Acorn, despite Apple attempting to assert ownership of various aspects of the desktop paradigm. It would have been interesting to see Apple try and shake ICL down over such claims, given all the prior art in ICL’s PERQ that helped sink Apple’s litigation against Microsoft and Hewlett-Packard later in the decade. But it is how part of the DRS range evolved that perhaps illustrates how the likes of Norsk Data might have acted more decisively.

Previously, I described exploring the matter of developing emulation of a serial port, along with the necessary circuitry, for Elkulator, an emulator for the Acorn Electron microcomputer, motivated by a need to provide a way of transferring files into and out of the emulated computer. During this exploration, I had discovered some existing software that had been developed to provide some level of serial “filing system” support on the BBC Microcomputer – the higher-specification sibling of the Electron – with the development of this software having been motivated by an unforeseen need to transfer software to a computer without any attached storage devices.

This existing serial filing system software was a good indication that serial communications could provide the basis of a storage medium. But instead of starting from a predicament involving computers without usable storage facilities, where an unforeseen need motivates the development of a clever workaround, I wanted to consider what such a system might have been like if there had been a deliberate plan from the very beginning to deploy computers that would rely on a serial connection for all their storage needs. Instead of having an implementation of the filing system in RAM, one could have the luxury of putting it into a ROM chip that would be fitted in the computer or in an expansion, and a richer set of features might then be contemplated.

A Smarter Terminal

Once again, my interest in the historical aspects of the technology provided some guidance and some inspiration. When microcomputers started to become popular and businesses and institutions had to decide whether these new products had any relevance to their operations, there was some uncertainty about whether such products were capable enough to be useful or whether they were a distraction from the facilities already available in such organisations. It seems like a lifetime ago now, but having a computer on every desk was not necessarily seen as a guarantee of enhanced productivity, particularly if they did not link up to existing facilities or did not coordinate the work of a number of individuals.

At the start of the 1980s, equipping an office with a computer on every desk and equipping every computer with a storage solution was an expensive exercise. Even disk drives offering only a hundred kilobytes of storage on each removable floppy disk were expensive, and hard disk drives were an especially expensive and precious luxury that were best shared between many users. Some microcomputers were marketed as multi-user systems, encouraging purchasers to connect terminals to them and to share those precious resources: precisely the kind of thing that had been done with minicomputers and mainframes. Such trends continued into the mid-1980s, manifested by products promoted by companies with mainframe origins, such companies perpetuating entrenched tendencies to frame computing solutions in certain ways.

Terminals themselves were really just microcomputers designed for the sole purpose of interacting with a “host” computer, and institutions already operating mainframes and minicomputers would have experienced the need to purchase several of them. Until competition intensified in the terminal industry, such products were not particularly cheap, with the DEC VT220 introduced in 1983 costing $1295 at its introduction. Meanwhile, interest in microcomputers and the possibility of distributing some kinds of computing activity to these new products, led to experimentation in some organisations. Some terminal manufacturers responded by offering terminals that also ran microcomputer software.

Much of the popular history of microcomputing, familiar to anyone who follows such topics online, particularly through YouTube videos, focuses on adoption of such technology in the home, with an inevitable near-obsession with gaming. The popular history of institutional adoption often focuses on the upgrade parade from one generation of computer to the next. But there is a lesser told history involving the experimentation that took place at the intersection of microcomputing and minicomputing or mainframe computing. In universities, computers like the BBC Micro were apparently informally introduced as terminals for other systems, terminal ROMs were developed and shared between institutions. However, there seems to have been relatively little mainstream interest in such software as fully promoted commercial products, although Acornsoft – Acorn’s software outlet – did adopt such a ROM to sell as their Termulator product.

The Acorn Electron, introduced at £199, had a “proper” keyboard and the ability to display 80 columns of text, unlike various other popular microcomputers. Indeed, it may have been the lowest-priced computer to be able to display 80 columns of relatively high definition text as standard, such capabilities requiring extra cards for machines like the Apple II and the Commodore 64. Considering the much lower price of such a computer, the ongoing experimentation underway at the time with its sibling machine on alternative terminal solutions, and the generally favourable capabilities of both these machines, it seems slightly baffling that more was not done to pursue opportunities to introduce a form of “intelligent terminal” or “hybrid terminal” product to certain markets.

VIEW in 80 columns on the Acorn Electron.

None of this is to say that institutional users would have been especially enthusiastic. In some institutions, budgets were evidently generous enough that considerable sums of money would be spent acquiring workstations that were sometimes of questionable value. But in others, the opportunity to make savings, to explore other ways of working, and perhaps also to explicitly introduce microcomputing topics such as software development for lower-specification hardware would have been worthy of some consideration. An Electron with a decent monochrome monitor, like the one provided with the M2105, plus some serial hardware, could have comprised a product sold for perhaps as little as £300.

The Hybrid Terminal

How would a “hybrid terminal” solution work, how might it have been adopted, and what might it have been used for? Through emulation and by taking advantage of the technological continuity in multi-user systems from the 1980s to the present day, we can attempt to answer such questions. Starting with communications technologies familiar in the world of the terminal, we might speculate that a serial connection would be the most appropriate and least disruptive way of interfacing a microcomputer to a multi-user system.

Although multi-user systems, like those produced by Digital Equipment Corporation (DEC), might have offered network connectivity, it is likely that such connectivity was proprietary, expensive in terms of the hardware required, and possibly beyond the interfacing capabilities of most microcomputers. Meanwhile, Acorn’s own low-cost networking solution, Econet, would not have been directly compatible with these much higher-end machines. Acorn’s involvement in network technologies is also more complicated than often portrayed, but as far as Econet is concerned, only much later machines would more conveniently bridge the different realms of Econet and standards-based higher-performance networks.

Moreover, it remains unlikely that operators and suppliers of various multi-user systems would have been enthusiastic about fitting dedicated hardware and installing dedicated software for the purpose of having such systems communicate with third-party computers using a third-party network technology. I did find it interesting that someone had also adapted Acorn’s network filing system that usually runs over Econet to work instead over a serial connection, which presumably serves files out of a particular user account. Another discovery I made was a serial filing system approach by someone who had worked at Acorn who wanted to transfer files between a BBC Micro system and a Unix machine, confirming that such functionality was worth pursuing. (And there is also a rather more complicated approach involving more exotic Acorn technology.)

Indeed, to be successful, a hybrid terminal approach would have to accommodate existing practices and conventions as far as might be feasible in order to not burden or disturb the operators of these existing systems. One motivation from an individual user’s perspective might be to justify introducing a computer on their desk, to be able to have it take advantage of the existing facilities, and to augment those facilities where it might be felt that they are not flexible or agile enough. Such users might request help from the operators, but the aim would be to avoid introducing more support hassles, which would easily arise if introducing a new kind of network to the mix. Those operators would want to be able to deploy something and have it perform a role without too much extra thought.

I considered how a serial link solution might achieve this. An existing terminal would be connected to, say, a Unix machine and be expected to behave like a normal client, allowing the user to log into their account. The microcomputer would send some characters down the serial line to the Unix “host”, causing it to present the usual login prompt, and the user would then log in as normal. They would then have the option of conducting an interactive session, making their computer like a conventional terminal, but there would also be the option of having the Unix system sit in the background, providing other facilities on request.

Logging into a remote service via a serial connection.

The principal candidates for these other facilities would be file storage and printing. Both of these things were centrally managed in institutions, often available via the main computing service, and the extensible operating system of the Electron and related microcomputers invites the development of software to integrate the core support for these facilities with such existing infrastructure. Files would be loaded from the user’s account on the multi-user system and saved back there again. Printing would spool the printed data to files somewhere in the user’s home directory for queuing to centralised printing services.

Attempting an Implementation

I wanted to see how such a “serial computing environment” would work in practice, how it would behave, what kinds of applications might benefit, and what kind of annoyances it might have. After all, it might be an interesting idea or a fun idea, but it need not be a particularly good one. The first obstacle was that of understanding how the software elements would work, primarily on the Electron itself, from the tasks that I would want the software to perform down to the way the functionality would be implemented. On the host or remote system, I was rather more convinced that something could be implemented since it would mostly be yet another server program communicating over a stream, with plenty of modern Unix conveniences to assist me along the way.

As it turned out, my investigations began with a trip away from home and the use of a different, and much more constrained, development environment involving an ARM-based netbook. Fortunately, Elkulator and the different compilers and tools worked well enough on that development hardware to make the exercise approachable. Another unusual element was that I was going to mostly rely on the original documentation in the form of the actual paper version of the Acorn Electron Advanced User Guide for information on how to write the software for the Electron. It was enlightening coming back to this book after a few decades for assistance on a specific exercise, even though I have perused the book many times in its revised forms online, because returning to it with a focus on a particular task led me to find that the documentation in the book was often vague or incomplete.

Although the authors were working in a different era and presumably under a degree of time pressure, I feel that the book in some ways exhibits various traits familiar to those of us working in the software industry, these indicating a lack of rigour and of sufficient investment in systems documentation. For this, I mostly blame the company who commissioned the work and then presumably handed over some notes and told the authors to fill in the gaps. As if to strengthen such perceptions of hurriedness and lack of review, it also does not help that “system” is mis-spelled “sysem” in a number of places in the book!

Nevertheless, certain aspects of the book were helpful. The examples, although focusing on one particular use-case, did provide helpful detail in deducing the correct way of using certain mechanisms, even if they elected to avoid the correct way of performing other tasks. Acorn’s documentation had a habit of being “preachy” about proper practices, only to see its closest developers ignore those practices, anyway. Eventually, on returning from my time away, I was able to fill in some of the gaps, although by this time I had a working prototype that was able to do basic things like initiate a session on the host system and to perform some file-related operations.

There were, and still are, a lot of things that needed, and still need, improvement with my implementation. The way that the operating system needs to be extended to provide extra filing system functionality involves plenty of programming interfaces, plenty of things to support, and also plenty of opportunities for things to go wrong. The VIEW word processor makes use of interfaces for both whole-file loading and saving as well as random-access file operations. Missing out support for one or the other will probably not yield the desired level of functionality.

There are also intricacies with regard to switching printing on and off – this typically being done using control characters sent through the output stream – and of “spool” files which capture character output. And filing system ROMs need to be initialised through a series of “service calls”, these being largely documented, but the overall mechanism is left largely undescribed in the documentation. It is difficult enough deciphering the behaviour of the Electron’s operating system today, with all the online guidance available in many forms, so I cannot imagine how difficult it would have been as a third party to effectively develop applications back in the day.

Levels of Simulation

To support the activities of the ROM software in the emulated Electron, I had to develop a server program running on my host computer. As noted above, this was not onerous, especially since I had already written a program to exercise the serial communications and to interact with the emulated serial port. I developed this program further to respond to commands issued by my ROM, performing host operations and returning results. For example, the CAT command produces a “catalogue” of files in a host directory, and so my server program performs a directory listing operation, collects the names of the files, and then sends them over the virtual serial link to the ROM for it to display to the user.

To make the experience somewhat authentic and to approximate to an actual deployment environment, I included a simulation of the login prompt so that the user of the emulated Electron would have to log in first, with the software also having to deal with a logged out (or not yet logged in) condition in a fairly graceful way. To ensure that they are logged in, a user selects the Serial Computing Environment using the *SCE command, this explicitly selecting the serial filing system, and the login dialogue is then presented if the user has not yet logged into the remote host. Once logged in, the ROM software should be able to test for the presence of the command processor that responds to issued commands, only issuing commands if the command processor has signalled its presence.

Although this models a likely deployment environment, I wanted to go a bit further in terms of authenticity, and so I decided to make the command processor a separate program that would be installed in a user account on a Unix machine. The user’s profile script would be set up to run the command processor, so that when they logged in, this program would automatically run and be ready for commands. I was first introduced to such practices in my first workplace where a menu-driven, curses-based program I had written was deployed so that people doing first-line technical support could query the database of an administrative system without needing to be comfortable with the Unix shell environment.

For complete authenticity I would actually want to have the emulated Electron contact a Unix-based system over a physical serial connection, but for now I have settled for an arrangement whereby a pseudoterminal is created to run the login program, with the terminal output presented to the emulator. Instead of seeing a simulated login dialogue, the user now interacts with the host system’s login program, allowing them to log into a real account. At that point, the command processor is invoked by the shell and the user gets back control.

Obtaining a genuine login dialogue from a Unix system.

To prevent problems with certain characters, the command processor configures the terminal to operate in raw mode. Apart from that, it operates mostly as it did when run together with the login simulation which did not have to concern itself with such things as terminals and login programs.

Some Applications

This effort was motivated by the need or desire to be able to access files from within Elkulator, particularly from applications such as VIEW. Naturally, VIEW is really just one example from the many applications available for the Electron, but since it interacts with a range of functionality that this serial computing environment provides, it serves to showcase such functionality fairly well. Indeed, some of the screenshots featured in this and the previous article show VIEW operating on text that was saved and loaded over the serial connection.

Accessing files involves some existing operating system commands, such as *CAT (often abbreviated to *.) to list the catalogue of a storage medium. Since a Unix host supports hierarchical storage, whereas the Electron’s built-in command set only really addresses the needs of a flat storage medium (as provided by various floppy disk filing systems for Electron and BBC Micro), the *DIR command has been introduced from Acorn’s hierarchical filing systems (such as ADFS) to navigate between directories, which is perhaps confusing to anyone familiar with other operating systems, such as the different variants of DOS and their successors.

Using catalogue and directory traversal commands.

VIEW allows documents to be loaded and saved in a number of ways, but as a word processor it also needs to be able to print these documents. This might be done using a printer connected to a parallel port, but it makes a bit more sense to instead allow the serial printer to be selected and for printing to occur over the serial connection. However, it is not sufficient to merely allow the operating system to take over the serial link and to send the printed document, if only because the other side of this link is not a printer! Indeed, the command processor is likely to be waiting for commands and to see the incoming data as ill-formed input.

The chosen solution was to intercept attempts to send characters to a serial printer, buffering them and then sending the buffered data in special commands to the command processor. This in turn would write the printed characters to a “spool” file for each printing session. From there, these files could be sent to an appropriate printer. This would give the user rather more control over printing, allowing them to process the printout with Unix tools, or to select one particular physical printer out of the many potentially available in an organisation. In the VIEW environment, and in the MOS environment generally, there is no built-in list of printers or printer selection dialogue.

Since the kinds of printers anticipated for use with VIEW might well have been rather different from the kinds connected to multi-user systems, it is likely that some processing would be desirable where different text styles and fonts have been employed. Today, projects like PrinterToPDF exist to work with old-style printouts, but it is conceivable that either the “printer driver generator” in the View suite or some postprocessing tool might have been used to produce directly printable output. With unstyled text, however, the printouts are generally readable and usable, as the following excerpt illustrates.

               A  brief report on the experience
               of using VIEW as a word processor
               four decades on.

Using VIEW on the Acorn  Electron  is  an  interesting  experience  and  a
glimpse  into  the  way  word  processing  was  once done. Although I am a
dedicated user of Vim, I am under no  illusions  of  that  program's  word
processing  capabilities: it is deliberately a screen editor based on line
editor  heritage,  and  much  of  its  operations  are  line-oriented.  In
contrast, VIEW is intended to provide printed output: it presents the user
with a  ruler  showing  the  page margins and tab stops, and it even saves
additional   rulers   into  the  stored  document   in   their   on-screen
representations. Together with its default typewriter-style  behaviour  of
allowing  the  cursor  to  be moved into empty space and of overwriting or
replacing text, there is a quaint feel to it.

Since VIEW is purely text-based, I can easily imagine converting its formatting codes to work with troff. That would then broaden the output options. Interestingly, the Advanced User Guide was written in VIEW and then sent to a company for typesetting, so perhaps a workflow like this would have been useful for the authors back then.

A major selling point of the Electron was its provision of BBC BASIC as the built-in language. As the BBC Micro had started to become relatively widely adopted in schools across the United Kingdom, a less expensive computer offering this particular dialect of BASIC was attractive to purchasers looking for compatibility with school computers at home. Obviously, there is a need to be able to load and save BASIC programs, and this can be done using the serial connection.

Loading a BASIC program from the Unix host.

Beyond straightforward operations like these, BASIC also provides random-access file operations through various keywords and constructs, utilising the underlying operating system interfaces that invoke filing system operations to perform such work. VIEW also appears to use these operations, so it seems sensible not to ignore them, even if many programmers might have preferred to use bulk transfer operations – the standard load and save – to get data in and out of memory quickly.

A BASIC program reading and showing a file.

Interactions between printing, the operating system’s own spooling support, outputting characters and reading and writing data are tricky. A degree of experimentation was required to make these things work together. In principle, it should be possible to print and spool at the same time, even with output generated by the remote host that has been sent over the serial line for display on the Electron!

Of course, as a hybrid terminal, the exercise would not be complete without terminal functionality. Here, I wanted to avoid going down another rabbit hole and implementing a full terminal emulator, but I still wanted to demonstrate the invocation of a shell on the Unix host and the ability to run commands. To show just another shell session transcript would be rather dull, so here I present the perusal of a Python program to generate control codes that change the text colour on the Electron, along with the program’s effects:

Interaction with the shell featuring multiple text colours.

As a bitmapped terminal, the Electron is capable of much more than this. Although limited to moderate resolutions by the standards of the fanciest graphics terminals even of that era, there are interesting possibilities for Unix programs and scripts to generate graphical output.

A chart generated by a Python program showing workstation performance results.

Sending arbitrary character codes requires a bit of terminal configuration magic so that line feeds do not get translated into other things (the termios manual page is helpful, here, suggesting the ONLCR flag as the culprit), but the challenge, as always, is to discover the piece of the stack of technologies that is working against you. Similar things can be said on the Electron as well, with its own awkward confluence of character codes for output and output control, requiring the character output state to be tracked so that certain values do not get misinterpreted in the wrong context.

Others have investigated terminal connectivity on Acorn’s 8-bit microcomputers and demonstrated other interesting ways of producing graphical output from Unix programs. Acornsoft’s Termulator could even emulate a Tektronix 4010 graphical terminal. Curiously, Termulator also supported file transfer between a BBC Micro and the host machine, although only as a dedicated mode and limited to ASCII-only text files, leaving the hybrid terminal concept unexplored.

Reflections and Remarks

I embarked on this exercise with some cautiousness, knowing that plenty of uncertainties lay ahead in implementing a functional piece of software, and there were plenty of frustrating moments as some of the different elements of the rather underdocumented software stack conspired to produce undesirable behaviour. In addition, the behaviour of my serial emulation code had a confounding influence, requiring some low-level debugging (tracing execution within the emulator instruction by instruction, noting the state of the emulated CPU), some slowly dawning realisations, and some adjustments to hopefully make it work in a more cooperative fashion.

There are several areas of potential improvement. I first programmed in 6502 assembly language maybe thirty-five years ago, and although I managed to get some sprite and scrolling routines working, I never wrote any large programs, nor had to interact with the operating system frameworks. I personally find the 6502 primitive, rigid, and not particularly conducive to higher-level programming techniques, and I found myself writing some macros to take away the tedium of shuffling values between registers and the stack, constantly aware of various pitfalls with regard to corrupting registers.

My routines extending the operating system framework possibly do not do things the right way or misunderstand some details. That, I will blame on the vague documentation as well as any mistakes made micromanaging the registers. Particularly frustrating was the way that my ROM code would be called with interrupts disabled in certain cases. This made implementation challenging when my routines needed to communicate over the serial connection, when such communication itself requires interrupts to be enabled. Quite what the intention of the MOS designers was in such circumstances remains something of a mystery. While writing this article, I realised that I could have implemented the printing functionality in a different way, and this might have simplified things, right up to the point where I saw, thanks to the debugger provided by Elkulator, that the routines involved are called – surprise! – with interrupts disabled.

Performance could be a lot better, with this partly due to my own code undoubtedly requiring optimisation. The existing software stack is probably optimised to a reasonable extent, but there are various persistent background activities that probably steal CPU cycles unnecessarily. One unfortunate contributor to performance limitations is the hardware architecture of the Electron. Indeed, I discovered while testing in one of the 80-column display modes that serial transfers were not reliable at the default transfer rate of 9600 baud, instead needing to be slowed down to only 2400 baud. Some diagnosis confirmed that the software was not reading the data from the serial chip quickly enough, causing an overflow condition and data being lost.

Motivated by cost reduction and product positioning considerations – the desire to avoid introducing a product that might negatively affect BBC Micro sales – the Electron was deliberately designed to use a narrow data bus to fewer RAM chips than otherwise would have been used, with a seemingly clever technique being employed to allow the video circuitry to get the data at the desired rate to produce a high-resolution or high-bandwidth display. Unfortunately, the adoption of the narrow data bus, facilitated by the adoption of this particular technique, meant that the CPU could only ever access RAM at half its rated speed. And with the narrow data bus, the video circuitry effectively halts the CPU altogether for a substantial portion of its time in high-bandwidth display modes. Since serial communications handling relies on the delivery and handling of interrupts, if the CPU is effectively blocked from responding quickly enough, it can quickly fall behind if the data is arriving and the interrupts are occurring too often.

That does raise the issue of reliability and of error correction techniques. Admittedly, this work relies on a reliable connection between the emulated Electron and the host. Some measures are taken to improve the robustness of the communication when messages are interrupted so that the host in particular is not left trying to send or receive large volumes of data that are no longer welcome or available, and other measures are taken to prevent misinterpretation of stray data received in a different and thus inappropriate context. I imagine that I may have reinvented the wheel badly here, but these frustrations did provide a level of appreciation of the challenges involved.

Some Broader Thoughts

It is possible that Acorn, having engineered the Electron too aggressively for cost, made the machine less than ideal for the broader range of applications for which it was envisaged. That said, it should have been possible to revise the design and produce a more performant machine. Experiments suggest that a wider data path to RAM would have helped with the general performance of the Electron, but to avoid most of the interrupt handling problems experienced with the kind of application being demonstrated here, the video system would have needed to employ its existing “clever” memory access technique in conjunction with that wider data path so as to be able to share the bandwidth more readily with the CPU.

Contingency plans should have been made to change or upgrade the machine, if that had eventually been deemed necessary, starting at the point in time when the original design compromises were introduced. Such flexibility and forethought would also have made a product with a longer appeal to potential purchasers, as opposed to a product that risked being commercially viable for only a limited period of time. However, it seems that the lessons accompanying such reflections on strategy and product design were rarely learned by Acorn. If lessons were learned, they appear to have reinforced a particular mindset and design culture.

Virtue is often made of the Acorn design philosophy and the sometimes rudely expressed and dismissive views of competing technologies that led the company to develop the ARM processor. This approach enabled comparatively fast and low-cost systems to be delivered by introducing a powerful CPU to do everything in a system from running applications to servicing interrupts for data transfers, striving for maximal utilisation of the available memory bandwidth by keeping the CPU busy. That formula worked well enough at the low end of the market, but when the company tried to move upmarket once again, its products were unable to compete with those of other companies. Ultimately, this sealed the company’s fate, even if more fortuitous developments occurred to keep ARM in the running.

(In the chart shown earlier demonstating graphical terminal output and illustrating workstation performance, circa 1990, Acorn’s R260 workstation is depicted as almost looking competitive until one learns that the other workstations depicted arrived a year earlier and that the red bar showing floating-point performance only applies to Acorn’s machine three years after its launch. It would not be flattering to show the competitors at that point in history, nor would it necessarily be flattering to compare whole-system performance, either, if any publication sufficiently interested in such figures had bothered to do so. There is probably an interesting story to be told about these topics, particularly how Acorn’s floating-point hardware arrived so late, but I doubt that there is the same willingness to tell it as there is to re-tell the usual celebratory story of ARM for the nth time.)

Acorn went on to make the Communicator as a computer that would operate in a kind of network computing environment, relying on network file servers to provide persistent storage. It reused some of the technology in the Electron and the BT Merlin M2105, particularly the same display generator and its narrow data bus to RAM, but ostensibly confining that aspect of the Electron’s architecture to a specialised role, and providing other facilities for applications and, as in the M2105, for interaction with peripherals. Sadly, the group responsible in Acorn had already been marginalised and eventually departed, apparently looking to pursue the concept elsewhere.

As for this particular application of an old computer and a product that was largely left uncontemplated, I think there probably was some mileage in deploying microcomputers in this way, even outside companies like Acorn where such computers were being developed and used, together with software development companies with their own sophisticated needs, where minicomputers like the DEC VAX would have been available for certain corporate or technical functions. Public (or semi-public) access terminals were fairly common in universities, and later microcomputers were also adopted in academia due to their low cost and apparently sufficient capabilities.

Although such adoption appears to have focused on terminal applications, it cannot have been beyond the wit of those involved to consider closer integration between the microcomputing and multi-user environments. In further and higher education, students will have had microcomputing experience and would have been able to leverage their existing skills whilst learning new ones. They might have brought their microcomputers along with them, giving them the opportunity to transfer or migrate their existing content – their notes, essays, programs – to the bright and emerging new world of Unix, as well as updating their expertise.

As for updating my own expertise, it has been an enlightening experience in some ways, and I may well continue to augment the implemented functionality, fix and improve things, and investigate the possibilities this work brings. I hope that this rather lengthy presentation of the effort has provided insights into experiences of the past that was and the past that might have been.

Over the years, I have had a few things to say about technological change, churn, and the appearance of progress, a few of them touching on the evolution and development of the Python programming language. Some of my articles have probably seemed a bit outspoken, perhaps even unfair. It was somewhat reassuring, then, to encounter the reflections of a longstanding author of Python books and his use of rather stronger language than I think I ever used. It was also particularly reassuring because I apparently complain about things in far too general a way, not giving specific examples of phenomena for anything actionable to be done about them. So let us see whether we can emerge from the other end of this article in better shape than we are at this point in it.

Now, the longstanding author in question is none other than Mark Lutz whose books “Programming Python” and “Learning Python” must surely have been bestsellers for their publisher over the years. As someone who has, for many years, been teaching Python to a broad audience of newcomers to the language and to programming in general, his views overlap with mine about how Python has become increasingly incoherent and overly complicated, as its creators or stewards pursue some kind of agenda of supposed improvement without properly taking into account the needs of the broadest reaches of its user community. Instead, as with numerous Free Software projects, an unscrutable “vision” is used to impose change based on aesthetics and contemporary fashions, unrooted in functional need, by self-appointed authorities who often lack an awareness or understanding of historical precedent or genuine user need.

Such assertions are perhaps less kind to Python’s own developers than they should be. Those choosing to shoehorn new features into Python arguably have more sense of precedent than, say, the average desktop environment developer imitating Apple in what could uncharitably be described as an ongoing veiled audition for a job in Cupertino. Nevertheless, I feel that language developers would be rather more conservative if they only considered what teaching their language to newcomers entails or what effect their changes have on the people who have written code in their language. Am I being unfair? Let us read what Mr Lutz has to say on the matter:

The real problem with Python, of course, is that its evolution is driven by narcissism, not user feedback. That inevitably makes your programs beholden to ever-shifting whims and ever-hungry egos. Such dependencies might have been laughable in the past. In the age of Facebook, unfortunately, this paradigm permeates Python, open source, and the computer field. In fact, it extends well beyond all three; narcissism is a sign of our times.

You won’t find a shortage of similar sentiments on his running commentary of Python releases. Let us, then, take a look at some experiences and try to review such assertions. Maybe I am not being so unreasonable (or impractical) in my criticism after all!

Out in the Field

In a recent job, of which more might be written another time, Python was introduced to people more familiar with languages such as R (which comes across as a terrible language, but again, another time perhaps). It didn’t help that as part of that introduction, they were exposed to things like this:

    def method(self, arg: Dict[Something, SomethingElse]):
        return arg.items()

When newcomers are already having to digest new syntax, new concepts (classes and objects!), and why there is a “self” parameter, unnecessary ornamentation such as the type annotations included in the above, only increases the cognitive burden. It also doesn’t help to then say, “Oh, the type declarations are optional and Python doesn’t really check them, anyway!” What is the student supposed to do with that information? Many years ago now, Java was mocked for confronting its newcomers with boilerplate like this classic:

    public static void main(String[] args)

But exposing things that the student is then directed to ignore is simply doing precisely the same thing for which Java was criticised. Of course, in Python, the above method could simply have been written as follows:

    def method(self, arg):
        return arg.items()

Indeed, for the above method to be valid in the broadest sense, the only constraint on the nature of the “arg” parameter is that it offer an attribute called “items” that can be called with no arguments. By prescriptively imposing a limitation on “arg” as was done above, insisting that it be a dictionary, the method becomes less general and less usable. Moreover, the nature of Python itself is neglected or mischaracterised: the student might believe that only a certain type would be acceptable, just as one might suggest that the author of that code also fails to see that a range of different, conformant kinds of objects could be used with the method. Such practices discourage or conceal polymorphism and generic functionality at a point when the beginner’s mind should be opened to them.

As Mr Lutz puts such things in the context of a different feature introduced in Python 3.5:

To put that another way: unless you’re willing to try explaining a new feature to people learning the language, you just shouldn’t do it.

The tragedy is that Python in its essential form is a fairly intuitive and readable language. But as he also says in the specific context of type annotations:

Thrashing (and rudeness) aside, the larger problem with this proposal’s extensions is that many programmers will code them—either in imitation of other languages they already know, or in a misguided effort to prove that they are more clever than others. It happens. Over time, type declarations will start appearing commonly in examples on the web, and in Python’s own standard library. This has the effect of making a supposedly optional feature a mandatory topic for every Python programmer.

And I can certainly say from observation that in various professional cultures, including academia where my own recent observations were made, there is a persistent phenomenon where people demonstrate “best practice” to show that they as a software development practitioner (or, indeed, a practitioner of anything else related to the career in question) are aware of the latest developments, are able to communicate them to their less well-informed colleagues, and are presumably the ones who should be foremost in anyone’s consideration for any future hiring round or promotion. Unfortunately, this enthusiasm is not always tempered by considered reflection, either on the nature of the supposed innovation itself, or on the consequences its proliferation will have.

Perversely, such enthusiasm, provoked by the continual hustle for funding, positions, publications and reputation, risks causing a trail of broken programs, and yet at the same time, much is made of the need for software development to be done “properly” in academia, that people do research that is reproducible and whose computational elements are repeatable. It doesn’t help that those ambitions must also be squared with other apparent needs such as offering tools and services to others. And the need to offer such things in a robust and secure fashion sometimes has to coexist with the need to offer them in a convenient form, where appropriate. Taking all of these things into consideration is quite the headache.

A Positive Legacy

Amusingly, some have come to realise that Python’s best hope for reproducible research is precisely the thing that Python’s core developers have abandoned – Python 2.7 – and precisely because they have abandoned it. In an article about reproducing old, published results, albeit of a rather less than scientific nature, Nicholas Rougier sought to bring an old program back to life, aiming to find a way of obtaining or recovering the program’s sources, constructing an executable form of the program, and deploying and running that program on a suitable system. To run his old program, written for the Apple IIe microcomputer in Applesoft BASIC, required the use of emulators and, for complete authenticity, modern hardware expansions to transfer the software to floppy disks to run on an original Apple IIe machine.

And yet, the ability to revive and deploy a program developed 32 years earlier was possible thanks to the Apple machine’s status as a mature, well-understood platform with an enthusiastic community developing new projects and products. These initiatives were only able to offer such extensive support for a range of different “retrocomputing” activities because the platform has for a long time effectively been “frozen”. Contrasting such a static target with rapidly evolving modern programming languages and environments, Rougier concluded that “an advanced programming language that is guaranteed not to evolve anymore” would actually be a benefit for reproducible science, that few people use many of the new features of Python 3, and that Python 2.7 could equally be such a “highly fertile ground for development” that the proprietary Applesoft BASIC had proven to be for a whole community of developers and users.

Naturally, no language designer ever wants to be told that their work is finished. Lutz asserts that “a bloated system that is in a perpetual state of change will eventually be of more interest to its changers than its prospective users”, which is provocative but also rings true. CPython (the implementation of Python in the C programming language) has always had various technical deficiencies – the lack of proper multithreading, for instance – but its developers who also happen to be the language designers seem to prefer tweaking the language instead. Other languages have gained in popularity at Python’s expense by seeking to address such deficiencies and to meet the frustrated expectations of Python developers. Or as Lutz notes:

While Python developers were busy playing in their sandbox, web browsers mandated JavaScript, Android mandated Java, and iOS became so proprietary and closed that it holds almost no interest to generalist developers.

In parts of academia familiar with Python, languages like Rust and Julia are now name-dropped, although I doubt that many of those doing the name-dropping realise what they are in for if they decide to write everything in Rust. Meanwhile, Python 2 code is still used, against a backdrop of insistent but often ignored requests from systems administrators for people to migrate code to Python 3 so that newer operating system distributions can be deployed. In other sectors, such migration is meant to be factored into the cost of doing business, but in places like academia where software maintenance generally doesn’t get funding, no amount of shaming or passive-aggressive coercion is magically going to get many programs updated at all.

Of course, we could advocate that everybody simply run their old software in virtual machines or containers, just as was possible with that Applesoft BASIC program from over thirty years ago. Indeed, containerisation is the hot thing in places like academia just as it undoubtedly is elsewhere. But unlike the Apple II community who will hopefully stick with what they know, I have my doubts that all those technological lubricants marketed under the buzzword “containers!” will still be delivering the desired performance decades from now. As people jump from yesterday’s hot solution to today’s and on to tomorrow’s (Docker, with or without root, to Singularity/Apptainer, and on to whatever else we have somehow deserved), just the confusion around the tooling will be enough to make the whole exercise something of an ordeal.

A Detour to the Past

Over the last couple of years, I have been increasingly interested in looking back over the course of the last few decades, back to the time when I was first introduced to microcomputers, and even back beyond that to the age of mainframes when IBM reigned supreme and the likes of ICL sought to defend their niche and to remain competitive, or even relevant, as the industry shifted beneath them. Obviously, I was not in a position to fully digest the state of the industry as a schoolchild fascinated with the idea that a computer could seemingly take over a television set and show text and graphics on the screen, and I was certainly not “taking” all the necessary computing publications to build up a sophisticated overview, either.

But these days, many publications from decades past – magazines, newspapers, academic and corporate journals – are available from sites like the Internet Archive, and it becomes possible to sample the sentiments and mood of the times, frustrations about the state of then-current, affordable technology, expectations of products to come, and so on. Those of us who grew up in the microcomputing era saw an obvious progression in computing technologies: faster processors, more memory, better graphics, more and faster storage, more sophisticated user interfaces, increased reliability, better development tools, and so on. Technologies such as Unix were “the future”, labelled as impending to the point of often being ridiculed as too expensive, too demanding or too complicated, perhaps never to see the limelight after all. People were just impatient: we got there in the end.

While all of that was going on, other trends were afoot at the lowest levels of computing. Computer instruction set architectures had become more complicated as the capabilities they offered had expanded. Although such complexity, broadly categorised using labels such as CISC, had been seen as necessary or at least desirable to be able to offer system implementers a set of convenient tools to more readily accomplish their work, the burden of delivering such complexity risked making products unreliable, costly and late. For example, the National Semiconductor 32016 processor, seeking to muscle in on the territory of Digital Equipment Corporation and its VAX line of computers, suffered delays in getting to market and performance deficiencies that impaired its competitiveness.

Although capable and in some respects elegant, it turned out that these kinds of processing architectures were not necessarily delivering what was actually important, either in terms of raw performance for end-users or in terms of convenience for developers. Realisations were had that some of the complexity was superfluous, that programmers did not use certain instructions often or at all, and that a flawed understanding of programmers’ needs had led to the retention of functionality that did not need to be inscribed in silicon with all the associated costs and risks that this would entail. Instead, simpler, more orthogonal architectures could be delivered that offered instructions that programmers or, crucially, their compilers would actually use. The idea of RISC was thereby born.

As the concept of RISC took off, pursued by the likes of IBM, UCB and Sun, Stanford University and MIPS, Acorn (and subsequently ARM), HP, and even Digital, Intel and Motorola, amongst others, the concept of the workstation became more fully realised. It may have been claimed by some commentator or other that “the personal computer killed the workstation” or words to that effect, but in fact, the personal computer effectively became the workstation during the course of the 1990s and early years of the twenty-first century, albeit somewhat delayed by Microsoft’s sluggish delivery of appropriately sophisticated operating systems throughout its largely captive audience.

For a few people in the 1980s, the workstation vision was the dream: the realisation of their expectations for what a computer should do. Although expectations should always be updated to take new circumstances and developments into account, it is increasingly difficult to see the same rate of progress in this century’s decades that we saw in the final decades of the last century, at least in terms of general usability, stability and the emergence of new and useful computational capabilities. Some might well argue that graphics and video processing or networked computing have progressed immeasurably, these certainly having delivered benefits for visualisation, gaming, communications and the provision of online infrastructure, but in other regards, we seem stuck with something very familiar to that of twenty years ago but with increasingly disillusioned developers and disempowered users.

What we might take away from this historical diversion is that sometimes a focus on the essentials, on simplicity, and on the features that genuinely matter make more of a difference than just pressing ahead with increasingly esoteric and baroque functionality that benefits few and yet brings its own set of risks and costs. And we should recognise that progress is largely acknowledged only when it delivers perceptable benefits. In terms of delivering a computer language and environment, this may necessarily entail emphasising the stability and simplicity of the language, focusing instead on remedying the deficiencies of the underlying language technology to give users the kind of progress they might actually welcome.

A Dark Currency

Mark Lutz had intended to stop commentating on newer versions of Python, reflecting on the forces at work that makes Python what it now is:

In the end, the convolution of Python was not a technical story. It was a sociological story, and a human story. If you create a work with qualities positive enough to make it popular, but also encourage it to be changed for a reward paid entirely in the dark currency of ego points, time will inevitably erode the very qualities which made the work popular originally. There’s no known name for this law, but it happens nonetheless, and not just in Python. In fact, it’s the very definition of open source, whose paradigm of reckless change now permeates the computing world.

I also don’t know of a name for such a law of human behaviour, and yet I have surely mentioned such behavioural phenomena previously myself: the need to hustle, demonstrate expertise, audition for some potential job offer, demonstrate generosity through volunteering. In some respects, the cultivation of “open source” as a pragmatic way of writing software collaboratively, marginalising Free Software principles and encouraging some kind of individualistic gift culture coupled to permissive licensing, is responsible for certain traits of what Python has become. But although a work that is intrinsically Free Software in nature may facilitate chaotic, haphazard, antisocial, selfish, and many other negative characteristics in the evolution of that work, it is the social and economic environment around the work that actually promotes those characteristics.

When reflecting on the past, particularly during periods when capabilities were being built up, we can start to appreciate the values that might have been more appreciated at that time than they are now. Python originated at a time when computers in widespread use were becoming capable enough to offer such a higher-level language, one that could offer increased convenience over various systems programming languages whilst building on top of the foundations established by those languages. With considerable effort having been invested in such foundations, a mindset seemed to persist, at least in places, that such foundations might be enduring and be good for a long time.

An interesting example of such attitudes arose at a lower level with the development of the Alpha instruction set architecture. Digital, having responded ineffectively to its competitive threats, embraced the RISC philosophy and eventually delivered a processor range that could be used to support its existing product line-up, emphasising performance and longevity through a “15- to 25-year design horizon” that attempted to foresee the requirements of future systems. Sadly, Digital made some poor strategic decisions, some arguably due to Microsoft’s increasing influence over the company’s strategy, and after a parade of acquisitions, Alpha fell under the control of HP who sacrificed it, along with its own RISC architecture, to commit to Intel’s dead-end Itanium architecture. I suppose this illustrates that the chaos of “open source” is not the only hazard threatening stability and design for longevity.

Such long or distant horizons demand that newer developments remain respectful to the endeavours that have made them possible. Such existing and ongoing endeavours may have their flaws, but recognising and improving those flaws is more constructive and arguably more productive than tearing everything down and demanding that everything be redone to accommodate an apparently new way of thinking. Sadly, we see a lot of the latter these days, but it goes beyond a lack of respect for precedent and achievement, reflecting broader tendencies in our increasingly stressed societies. One such tendency is that of destructive competition, the elimination of competitors, and the pursuit of monopoly. We might be used to seeing such things in the corporate sphere – the likes of Microsoft wanting to be the only ones who provide the software for your computer, no matter where you buy it – but people have a habit of imitating what they see, especially when the economic model for our societies increasingly promotes the hustle for work and the need to carve out a lucrative niche.

So, we now see pervasive attitudes such as the pursuit of the zero-sum game. Where the deficiencies of a technology lead its users to pursue alternatives, defensiveness in the form of utterances such as “no need to invent another language” arises. Never mind that the custodians of the deficient technology – in this case, Python, of course – happily and regularly offer promotional consideration to a company who openly tout their own language for mobile development. Somehow, the primacy of the Python language is a matter for its users to bear, whereas another rule applies amongst its custodians. That is another familiar characteristic of human behaviour, particularly where power and influence accumulates.

And so, we now see hostility towards anything being perceived as competition, even if it is merely an independent endeavour undertaken by someone wishing to satisfy their own needs. We see intolerance for other solutions, but we also see a number of other toxic behaviours on display: alpha-dogging, personality worship and the cultivation of celebrity. We see chest-puffing displays of butchness about Important Matters like “security”. And, of course, the attitude to what went before is the kind of approach that involves boiling the oceans so that it may be populated by precisely the right kind of fish. None of this builds on or complements what is already there, nor does it deliver a better experience for the end-user. No wonder people say that they are jealous of colleagues who are retiring.

All these things make it unappealing to share software or even ideas with others. Fortunately, if one does not care about making a splash, one can just get on with things that are personally interesting and ignore all the “negativity from ignorant, opinionated blowhards”. Although in today’s hustle culture, this means also foregoing the necessary attention that might prompt anyone to discover your efforts and pay you to do such work. On the actual topic that has furnished us with so many links to toxic behaviour, and on the matter of the venue where such behaviour is routine, I doubt that I would want my own language-related efforts announced in such a venue.

Then again, I seem to recall that I stopped participating in that particular venue after one discussion had a participant distorting public health observations by the likes of Hans Rosling to despicably indulge in poverty denial. Once again, broader social, economic and political influences weigh heavily on our industry and communities, with people exporting their own parochial or ignorant views globally, and in the process corrupting and undermining other people’s societies, oblivious to the misery it has already caused in their own. Against this backdrop, simple narcissism is perhaps something of a lesser concern.

At the End of the Tunnel

I suppose I promised some actionable observations at the start of the article, so what might they be?

Respect Users and Investments

First of all, software developers should be respectful towards the users of their software. Such users lend validation to that software, encourage others to use it, and they potentially make it possible for the developers to work on it for a living. Their use involves an investment that, if written off by the developers, is costly for everyone concerned.

And no, the users’ demands for that investment to be protected cannot be disregarded as “entitlement”, even if they paid nothing to acquire the software, at least if the developers are happy to enjoy all the other benefits of the software’s proliferation. As is often said, power and influence bring responsibility. Just as democratically elected politicians have a responsibility towards everyone they represent, regardless of whether those people voted for them or not, software developers have a duty of care towards all of their users, even if it is merely to step out of the way and to let the users take the software in its own direction without seeking to frustrate them as we saw when Python 2 was cast aside.

Respond to User Needs Constructively

Developers should also be responsive to genuine user needs. If you believe all the folklore about the “open source” way, it should have been precisely people’s own genuine needs that persuaded them to initiate their own projects in the first place. It is entirely possible that a project may start with one kind of emphasis and demand one kind of skills only to evolve towards another emphasis or to require other skills. With Python, much of the groundwork was laid in the 1990s, building an interpreter and formulating a capable language. But beyond that initial groundwork, the more pressing challenges lay outside the language design domain and went beyond the implementation of a simple interpreter.

Improved performance and concurrency, both increasingly expected by users, required the application of other skills that might not have been present in the project. And yet, the elaboration of the language continued, with the developers susceptible to persuasion by outsiders engaging in “alpha-dogging” or even insiders with an inferiority complex, being made to feel that the language was not complete or even adequate since it lacked features from the pet languages of those outsiders or of the popular language of the day. Development communities should welcome initiatives to improve their projects in ways that actually benefit the users, and they should resist the urge to muscle in on such initiatives by seeking to demonstrate that they have the necessary solutions when their track record would indicate otherwise. (Or worse still, by reframing user needs in terms of their own narrow agenda as if to say, “Here is what you are really asking for.” Another familiar trait of the “visionary” desktop developer.)

Respect Other Solutions

Developers and commentators more generally should accept and respect the existence of other technologies and solutions. Just because they have their own favourite solution does not de-legitimise something they have just been made aware of. Maybe it is simply not meant for them. After all, not everything that happens in this reality is part of a performance exclusively for any one person’s benefit, despite what some people appear to think. And the existence of other projects doing much the same thing is not necessarily “wasted effort”: another concept introduced from some cult of economics or other.

It is entirely possible to provide similar functionality in different ways, and the underlying implementations may lend those different projects different characteristics – portability, adaptability, and so on – even if the user sees largely the same result on their screen. Maybe we do want to encourage different efforts even for fundamental technologies or infrastructure, not because anyone likes to “waste effort”, but because it gives the systems we build a level of redundancy and resilience. And maybe some people just work better with certain other people. We should let them, as opposed to forcing them to fit in with tiresome, exploitative and time-wasting development cultures, to suffer rudeness and general abuse, simply to go along with an exercise that props up some form of corporate programme of minimal investment in the chosen solution of industry and various pundits.

Develop for the Long Term and for Stability

Developers should make things that are durable so that they may be usable for many years to come. Or they should at least expect that people may want to use them years or even decades from now. Just because something is old does not mean it is bad. Much of what we use today is based on technology that is old, with much of that technology effectively coming of age decades ago. We should be able to enjoy the increased performance of our computers, not have it consumed by inefficient software that drives the hardware and other software into obsolescence. Technological fads come and go (and come back again): people in the 1990s probably thought that virtual reality would be pervasive by now, but experience should permit us to reflect and to recognise that some things were (and maybe always will be) bad ideas and that we shouldn’t throw everything overboard to pander to them, only to regret doing so later.

We live in a world where rapid and uncomfortable change has been normalised, but where consumerism has been promoted as the remedy. Perhaps some old way of doing something mundane doesn’t work any more – buying something, interacting with public agencies, fulfilling obligations, even casting votes in some kinds of elections – perhaps because someone has decided that money can be saved (and, of course, soon wasted elsewhere) if it can be done “digitally” from now on. To keep up, you just need a smartphone, or a newer smartphone, with an “app”, or the new “app”, and a subscription to a service, and another one. And so on. All of that “works” for people as long as they have the necessarily interest, skills, time, and money to spend.

But as the last few years have shown, it doesn’t take much to disrupt these unsatisfactory and fragile arrangements. Nobody advocating fancy “digital” solutions evidently considered that people would not already have everything they need to access their amazing creations. And when, as they say, neither love nor money can get you the gadgets you need, it doesn’t even matter how well-off you are: suddenly you get a downgrade in experience to a level that, as a happy consumer, you probably didn’t even know still existed, even if it is still the reality for whole sections of our societies. We have all seen how narrow the margins are between everything apparently being “just fine” and there being an all-consuming crisis, both on a global level and, for many, on a personal level, too.

Recognise Responsibilities to Others

Change can be a positive thing if it carries everyone along and delivers actual progress. Meanwhile, there are those who embrace disruption as a form of change, claiming it to be a form of progress, too, but that form of change is destructive, harmful and exclusionary. It should not be a surprise that prominent advocates of a certain political movement advocate such disruptive change: for them, it doesn’t matter how many people suffer by the ruinous change they have inflicted on everyone as long as they are the ones to benefit; everyone else can wait fifty years or so to see some kind of consolation for the things taken from them, apparently.

As we deliver technology to others, we should not be the ones deepening any misery already experienced by imposing needless and costly change. We should be letting people catch up with the state of technology and allowing them to be comfortable with it. We should invest in long-term solutions that address people’s needs, and we should refuse to be shamed into playing the games of opportunists and profiteers who ridicule anything old or familiar in favour of what they happen to be promoting today. We should demand that people’s investments in hardware and software be protected, that they are not effectively coerced into constantly buying new things and seeing their their living standards diminished in other ways, with such consumption burdening our planet’s ecosystem and resources.

Just as we all experience that others have power over us, so we might recognise the power we have over other people. And just as we might expect others to consider our interests, so we might consider the interests of those who have to put up with our decisions. Maybe, in the end, all I am doing is asking for people to show some consideration for the experiences of other people, that their lives not be made any harder than they might already be. Is that really too much to ask? Is that so hard to understand?

Last year, the university through which I obtained my degree celebrated a “milestone” anniversary, meaning that I got even more announcements, notices and other such things than I was already getting from them before. Fortunately, not everything published into this deluge is bound up in proprietary formats (as one brochure was, sitting on a Web page in Flash-only form) or only reachable via a dubious “Libyan link-shortener” (as certain things were published via a social media channel that I have now quit). It is indeed infuriating to see one of the links in a recent HTML/plain text hybrid e-mail message using a redirect service hosted on the university’s own alumni sub-site, sending the reader to a bit.ly URL, which will redirect them off into the great unknown and maybe even back to the original site. But such things are what one comes to expect on today’s Internet with all the unquestioning use of random “cloud” services, each one profiling the unsuspecting visitor and betraying their privacy to make a few extra cents or pence.

But anyway, upon following a more direct – but still redirected – link to an article on the university Web site, I found myself looking around to see what gets published there these days. Personally, I find the main university Web site rather promotional and arguably only superficially informative – you can find out the required grades to take courses along with supposed student approval ratings and hypothetical salary expectations upon qualifying – but it probably takes more digging to get at the real detail than most people would be willing to do. I wouldn’t mind knowing what they teach now in their computer science courses, for instance. I guess I’ll get back to looking into that later.

Gatekeepers of Knowledge

However, one thing did catch my eye as I browsed around the different sections, encountering the “technology transfer” department with the expected rhetoric about maximising benefits to society: the inevitable “IP” policy in all its intimidating length, together with an explanatory guide to that policy. Now, I am rather familiar with such policies from my time at my last academic employer, having been obliged to sign some kind of statement of compliance at one point, but then apparently not having to do so when starting a subsequent contract. It was not as if enlightenment had come calling at the University of Oslo between these points in time such that the “IP rights” agreement now suddenly didn’t feature in the hiring paperwork; it was more likely that such obligations had presumably been baked into everybody’s terms of employment as yet another example of the university upper management’s dubious organisational reform and questionable human resources practices.

Back at Heriot-Watt University, credit is perhaps due to the authors of their explanatory guide to try and explain the larger policy document, because it is most likely that most people aren’t going to get through that much longer document and retain a clear head. But one potentially unintended reason for credit is that by being presented with a much less opaque treatment of the policy and its motivations, we are able to see with enhanced clarity many of the damaging misconceptions that have sadly become entrenched in higher education and academia, including the ways in which such policies actually do conflict with the sharing of knowledge that academic endeavour is supposed to be all about.

So, we get the sales pitch about new things needing investment…

However, often new technologies and inventions are not fully developed because development needs investment, and investment needs commercial returns, and to ensure commercial returns you need something to sell, and a freely available idea cannot be sold.

If we ignore various assumptions about investment or the precise economic mechanisms supposedly required to bring about such investment, we can immediately note that ideas on their own aren’t worth anything anyway, freely available or not. Although the Norwegian Industrial Property Office (or the Norwegian Patent Office if we use a more traditional name) uses the absurd vision slogan “turning ideas into values” (it should probably read “value”, but whatever), this perhaps says more about greedy profiteering through the sale of government-granted titles bound to arbitrary things than it does about what kinds of things have any kind of inherent value that you can take to the bank.

But assuming that we have moved beyond the realm of simple ideas and have entered the realm of non-trivial works, we find that we have also entered the realm of morality and attitude management:

That is why, in some cases, it is better for your efforts not to be published immediately, but instead to be protected and then published, for protection gives you something to sell, something to sell can bring in investment, and investment allows further development. Therefore in the interests of advancing the knowledge within the field you work in, it is important that you consider the commercial potential of your work from the outset, and if necessary ensure it is properly protected before you publish.

Once upon a time, the most noble pursuit in academic research was to freely share research with others so that societal, scientific and technological progress could be made. Now it appears that the average researcher should treat it as their responsibility to conceal their work from others, seek “protection” on it, and then release the encumbered details for mere perusal and the conditional participation of those once-valued peers. And they should, of course, be wise to the commercial potential of the work, whatever that is. Naturally, “intellectual property” offices in such institutions have an “if in doubt, see us” policy, meaning that they seek to interfere with research as soon as possible, and should someone fail to have “seen them”, that person’s loyalty may very well be called into question as if they had somehow squandered their employer’s property. In some institutions, this could very easily get people marginalised or “reorganised” if not immediately or obviously fired.

The Rewards of Labour

It is in matters of property and ownership where things get very awkward indeed. Many people would accept that employees of an organisation are producing output that becomes the property of that organisation. What fewer people might accept is that the customers of an organisation are also subject to having their own output taken to be the property of that organisation. The policy guide indicates that even undergraduate students may also be subject to an obligation to assign ownership of their work to the university: those visiting the university supposedly have to agree to this (although it doesn’t say anything about what their “home institution” might have to say about that), and things like final year projects are supposedly subject to university ownership.

So, just because you as a student have a supervisor bound by commercialisation obligations, you end up not only paying tuition fees to get your university education (directly or through taxation), but you also end up having your own work taken off you because it might be seen as some element in your supervisor’s “portfolio”. I suppose this marks a new low in workplace regulation and standards within a sector that already skirts the law with regard to how certain groups are treated by their employers.

One can justifiably argue that employees of academic institutions should not be allowed to run away with work funded by those institutions, particularly when such funding originally comes from other sources such as the general public. After all, such work is not exactly the private property of the researchers who created it, and to treat it as such would deny it to those whose resources made it possible in the first place. Any claims about “rightful rewards” needing to be given are arguably made to confuse rational thinking on the matter: after all, with appropriate salaries, the researchers are already being rewarded doing work that interests and stimulates them (unlike a lot of people in the world of work). One can argue that academics increasingly suffer from poorer salaries, working conditions and career stability, but such injustices are not properly remedied by creating other injustices to supposedly level things out.

A policy around what happens with the work done in an academic institution is important. But just as individuals should not be allowed to treat broadly-funded work as their own private property, neither should the institution itself claim complete ownership and consider itself entitled to do what it wishes with the results. It may be acting as a facilitator to allow research to happen, but by seeking to intervene in the process of research, it risks acting as an inhibitor. Consider the following note about “confidential information”:

This is, in short, anything which, if you told people about, might damage the commercial interests of the university. It specifically includes information relating to intellectual property that could be protected, but isn’t protected yet, and which if you told people about couldn’t be protected, and any special know how or clever but non patentable methods of doing things, like trade secrets. It specifically includes all laboratory notebooks, including those stored in an electronic fashion. You must be very careful with this sort of information. This is of particular relevance to something that may be patented, because if other people know about it then it can’t be.

Anyone working in even a moderately paranoid company may have read things like this. But here the context is an environment where knowledge should be shared to benefit and inform the research community. Instead, one gets the impression that the wish to control the propagation of knowledge is so great that some people would rather see the details of “clever but non patentable methods” destroyed than passed on openly for others to benefit from. Indeed, one must question whether “trade secrets” should even feature in a university environment at all.

Of course, the obsession with “laboratory notebooks”, “methods of doing things” and “trade secrets” in such policies betrays the typical origins of such drives for commercialisation: the apparently rich pickings to be had in the medical, pharmaceutical and biosciences domains. It is hardly a coincidence that the University of Oslo intensified its dubious “innovation” efforts under a figurehead with a background (or an interest) in exactly those domains: with a narrow personal focus, an apparent disdain for other disciplines, and a wider commercial atmosphere that gives such a strategy a “dead cert” air of impending fortune, we should perhaps expect no more of such a leadership creature (and his entourage) than the sum of that creature’s instincts and experiences. But then again, we should demand more from such people when their role is to cultivate an institution of learning and not to run a private research organisation at the public’s expense.

The Dirty Word

At no point in the policy guide does the word “monopoly” appear. Given that such a largely technical institution would undoubtedly be performing research where the method of “protection” would involve patents being sought, omitting the word “monopoly” might be that document’s biggest flaw. Heriot-Watt University originates from the merger of two separate institutions, one of which was founded by the well-known pioneer of steam engine technology, James Watt.

Recent discussion of Watt’s contributions to the development and proliferation of such technology has brought up claims that Watt’s own patents – the things that undoubtedly made him wealthy enough to fund an educational organisation – actually held up progress in the domain concerned for a number of decades. While he was clearly generous and sensible enough to spend his money on worthy causes, one can always challenge whether the questionable practices that resulted in the accumulation of such wealth can justify the benefits from the subsequent use of that wealth, particularly if those practices can be regarded as having had negative effects of society and may even have increased wealth inequality.

Questioning philanthropy is not a particularly fashionable thing to do. In capitalist societies, wealthy people are often seen as having made their fortunes in an honest fashion, enjoying a substantial “benefit of the doubt” that this was what really occurred. Criticising a rich person giving money to ostensibly good causes is seen as unkind to both the generous donor and to those receiving the donations. But we should question the means through which the likes of Bill Gates (in our time) and James Watt (in his own time) made their fortunes and the power that such fortunes give to such people to direct money towards causes of their own personal choosing, not to mention the way in which wealthy people also choose to influence public policy and the use of money given by significantly less wealthy individuals – the rest of us – gathered through taxation.

But back to monopolies. Can they really be compatible with the pursuit and sharing of knowledge that academia is supposed to be cultivating? Just as it should be shocking that secretive “confidentiality” rules exist in an academic context, it should appal us that researchers are encouraged to be competitively hostile towards their peers.

Removing the Barriers

It appears that some well-known institutions understand that the unhindered sharing of their work is their primary mission. MIT Media Lab now encourages the licensing of software developed under its roof as Free Software, not requiring special approval or any other kind of institutional stalling that often seems to take place as the “innovation” vultures pick over the things they think should be monetised. Although proprietary licensing still appears to be an option for those within the Media Lab organisation, at least it seems that people wanting to follow their principles and make their work available as Free Software can do so without being made to feel bad about it.

As an academic institution, we believe that in many cases we can achieve greater impact by sharing our work.

So says the director of the MIT Media Lab. It says a lot about the times we live in that this needs to be said at all. Free Software licensing is, as a mechanism to encourage sharing, a natural choice for software, but we should also expect similar measures to be adopted for other kinds of works. Papers and articles should at the very least be made available using content licences that permit sharing, even if the licence variants chosen by authors might seek to prohibit the misrepresentation of parts of their work by prohibiting remixes or derived works. (This may sound overly restrictive, but one should consider the way in which scientific articles are routinely misrepresented by climate change and climate science deniers.)

Free Software has encouraged an environment where sharing is safely and routinely done. Licences like the GNU General Public Licence seek to shield recipients from things like patent threats, particularly from organisations which might appear to want to share their works, but which might be tempted to use patents to regulate the further use of those works. Even in realms where patents have traditionally been tolerated, attempts have been made to shield others from the effects of patents, intended or otherwise: the copyleft hardware movement demands that shared hardware designs are patent-free, for instance.

In contrast, one might think that despite the best efforts of the guide’s authors, all the precautions and behavioural self-correction it encourages might just drive the average researcher to distraction. Or, just as likely, to ignoring most of the guidelines and feigning ignorance if challenged by their “innovation”-obsessed superiors. But in the drive to monetise every last ounce of effort there is one statement that is worth remembering:

If intellectual property is not assigned, this can create problems in who is allowed to exploit the work, and again work can go to waste due to a lack of clarity over who owns what.

In other words, in an environment where everybody wants a share of the riches, it helps to have everybody’s interests out in the open so that there may be no surprises later on. Now, it turns out that unclear ownership and overly casual management of contributions is something that has occasionally threatened Free Software projects, resulting in more sophisticated thinking about how contributions are managed.

And it is precisely this combination of Free Software licensing, or something analogous for other domains, with proper contribution and attribution management that will extend safe and efficient sharing of knowledge to the academic realm. Researchers just cannot have the same level of confidence when dealing with the “technology transfer” offices of their institution and of other institutions. Such offices only want to look after themselves while undermining everyone beyond the borders of their own fiefdoms.

Divide and Rule

It is unfortunate that academic institutions feel that they need to “pull their weight” and have to raise funds to make up for diminishing public funding. By turning their backs on the very reason for their own existence and seeking monopolies instead of sharing knowledge, they unwittingly participate in the “divide and rule” tactics blatantly pursued in the political arena: that everyone must fight each other for all that is left once the lion’s share of public funding has been allocated to prestige megaprojects and schemes that just happen to benefit the well-connected, the powerful and the influential people in society the most.

A properly-funded education sector is an essential component of a civilised society, and its institutions should not be obliged to “sharpen their elbows” in the scuffle for funding and thus deprive others of knowledge just to remain viable. Sadly, while austerity politics remains fashionable, it may be up to us in the Free Software realm to remind academia of its obligations and to show that sustainable ways of sharing knowledge exist and function well in the “real world”.

Indeed, it is up to us to keep such institutions honest and to prevent advocates of monopoly-driven “innovation” from being able to insist that their way is the only way, because just as “divide and rule” politics erects barriers between groups in wider society, commercialisation erects barriers that inhibit the essential functions of academic pursuit. And such barriers ultimately risk extinguishing academia altogether, along with all the benefits its institutions bring to society. If my university were not reinforcing such barriers with its “IP” policy, maybe its anniversary as a measure of how far we have progressed from monopolies and intellectual selfishness would have been worth celebrating after all.

For noen måneder siden skrev jeg om avgjørelsen foretatt av ledelsen til Universitetet i Oslo å innføre Microsoft Exchange som gruppevareløsning. I teksten viste jeg til kommentarer som handlet om Roundcube og hvorfor den løsningen ikke kunne brukes i fremtiden hos UiO. Nå etter at universitetets IT-avdeling publiserte en nyhetssak som omtaler SquirrelMail, får jeg muligheten til å grave opp og dele noen detaljer fra mine samtaler med talspersonen tilknyttet prosjektet som vurderte Exchange og andre løsninger.

Når man ser rundt på nettet, virker det ikke uvanlig at organisasjoner innførte Roundcube parallelt med SquirrelMail på grunn av bekymringer om “universell utforming” (UU). Men i samtaler med prosjektet ble jeg fortalt at diverse mangler i UU-støtte var en aktuell grunn for at Roundcube ikke kunne bli en del av en fremtidig løsning for webmail hos UiO. Nå kommer sannheten frem:

“Ved innføringen av Roundcube som UiOs primære webmail-tjeneste fikk SquirrelMail lov til å leve videre i parallell fordi Roundcube hadde noen mangler knyttet til universell utforming. Da disse var forbedret hadde ledelsen besluttet at e-post og kalender skulle samles i et nytt system.”

Det finnes to ting som fanger vår oppmerksomhet her:

1. At Roundcube hadde mangler “ved innføringen”, mens Roundcube hadde vært i bruk i noen år før den tvilsomme prosessen ble satt i gang for å vurdere e-post og kalenderløsninger.
2. At forbedringene kom tilfeldigvis for sent for å påvirke ledelsens beslutning å innføre Exchange.

I fjor sommer, uten å dele prosjektgruppens påstander om mangler i Roundcube direkte i offentlighet, hørte jeg med andre om det fantes kjente mangler og forbedringspotensial i Roundcube i dette området. Var UU virkelig noe som hindret utbredelsen av Roundcube? Jeg satte meg inn i UU-teknologier og prøvde noen av dem med Roundcube for å se om situasjonen kunne forbedres med egen innsats. Det kan hende at det var store mangler i Roundcube tilbake i 2011 da prosjektgruppen begynte sitt arbeid – jeg velger ikke å hevde noe slikt – men etter at slike mangler ikke kom frem i 2012 i prosjektets sluttrapport (der Roundcube faktisk ble anbefalt som en del av den åpne kandidaten), må vi konkludere at slike bekymringer var for lengst borte og at universitetets egen webmail-tjeneste, selv om den er tilpasset organisasjonens egen visuelle profil (som kan ha noe å si om vedlikehold), var og fortsatt er tilgjengelig for alle brukere.

Hvis vi våger å tro at utdraget ovenfor forteller sannheten må vi nå konkludere at ledelsens beslutning fant sted lenge før selve prosessen som skulle underbygge denne beslutningen ble avsluttet. Og her må vi anse ordene “ledelsen besluttet” i et annet lys enn det som ellers er vanlig – der ledelsen først drar nytte av kompetanse i organisasjonen, og så tar en informert beslutning – med å anta at, som tidligere skrevet, noen “måtte ha” noe de likte, tok beslutningen de ville ta uansett, og så fikk andre til å finne på unnskyldninger og et grunnlag som virker fornuftig nok overfor utenforstående.

Det er én sak at en tilstrekkelig og fungerende IT-løsning som også er fri programvare svartmales mens tilsynelatende upopulære proprietære løsninger som Fronter når ikke opp slik at problemer rapportert i 2004 ble omtalt igjen i 2012 uten at produsenten gjør noe vesentlig mer enn å love å “jobbe med tilgjengelighet” fremover. Det er en annen sak at bærekraftige investeringer i fri programvare virker så fremmed til beslutningstakere hos UiO at folk heller vil snu arbeidsdagen til den vanlige ansatte opp-ned, slik utskiftningen av e-postinfrastrukturen har gjort for noen, enn å undersøke muligheten til å foreta relativt små utviklingsoppgaver for å oppgradere eksisterende systemer, og slippe at folk må “[stå] på dag og natt” i løpet av “de siste månedene” (og her viser vi selvsagt ikke til folk i ledelsen).

At ansatte i IT-avdelingen fikk munnkurv omkring prosessen og måtte forlange at deler av beslutningsgrunnlaget ikke når frem til offentligheten. At “menige” IT-ansvarlige må løpe hit og dit for å sørge for at ingen blir altfor misfornøyd med utfallet til en avgjørelse hverken de eller andre vanlige ansatte hadde vesentlig innflytelse på. At andre må tilpasse seg preferansene til folk som egentlig burde hatt ingenting å si om hvordan andre utfører sitt daglig arbeid. Alt dette sier noe om ledelseskulturen og demokratiske tilstander internt i Universitetet i Oslo.

Men sannheten kommer langsomt frem.

Det var interessant å lese et leserbrev i Uniforum med tittelen “Digitale samarbeidsverktøy i undervisning“: noe som trykker alle de riktige knappene i dagens akademiske landskap med et økende fokus på nettbasert opplæring, bredere tilgang til kurs, og mange andre ting som kanskje motiveres mer av “prestisje” og “å kapre kunder” enn å øke generell tilgjengelighet til en institusjons kunnskap og ekspertise. Brevforfatterne beskriver utbredt bruk av videokonferanseløsninger og skryter på en proprietær løsning som de tilsynelatende liker ganske godt, og henviser til universitetets anbefalinger for tekniske løsninger. Etter at man graver litt til å finne disse anbefalingene ser man ganske fort at de dreier seg om tre proprietære (eller delvis proprietære) systemer: Adobe Connect, Skype, og spesialiserte videokonferanseutstyr som finnes i noen møterom.

Det er i all sannsynlighet en konsekvens av forbrukersamfunnet vi lever i: at man tenker produkter og merkevarer og ikke standarder, og at etter man oppdager et spennende produkt vil man gjerne øke oppmerksomheten på produktet blant alle som har liknende behov. Men når man blir produkt- og merkevarefokusert kan man fort miste blikket over det egentlige problemet og den egentlige løsningen. At så mange fortsetter å insistere på Ibux når de kunne kjøpe generiske medikamenter for en brøkdel av merkevarens pris er bare et eksempel på at folk ikke lenger er vant til å vurdere de virkelige forholdene og vil heller ty til merkevarer for en enkel og rask løsning de ikke trenger å tenke så mye på.

Man bør kanskje ikke legge så veldig mye skyld på vanlige databrukere når de begår slike feil, spesielt når store deler av det offentlige her i landet fokuserer på proprietære produkter som, hvis de utnytter genuine standarder i det hele tatt, pleier å blande dem med proprietære teknologier for å styre kunden mot en forpliktelse overfor noen få leverandører i en nesten ubegrenset tid fremover. Men det er litt skuffende at “grønne” representanter ikke vurderer bærekraftige teknologiske løsninger – de som gjøres tilgjengelig som fri programvare og som bruker dokumenterte og åpne standarder – når det ville forventes at slike representanter foreslår bærekraftige løsninger i andre områder.

Things were certainly different when I started my university degree many years ago. For a start, institutions of higher education provided for many people their first encounter with the Internet, although for those of us in the United Kingdom, the very first encounter with wide area networking may well have involved X.25 and PAD terminals, and instead of getting a “proper” Internet e-mail address, it may have been the case that an address only worked within a particular institution. (My fellow students quickly became aware of an Internet mail gateway in our department and the possibility, at least, of sending Internet mail, however.)

These days, students beginning their university studies have probably already been using the Internet for most of their lives, will have had at least one e-mail address as well as accounts for other online services, may be publishing blog entries and Web pages, and maybe even have their own Web applications accessible on the Internet. For them, arriving at a university is not about learning about new kinds of services and new ways of communicating and collaborating: it is about incorporating yet more ways of working online into their existing habits and practices.

So what should students expect from their university in terms of services? Well, if things have not changed that much over the years, they probably need a means of communicating with the administration, their lecturers and their fellow students, along with some kind of environment to help them do their work and provide things like file storage space and the tools they won’t necessarily be able to provide themselves. Of course, students are more likely to have their own laptop computer (or even a tablet) these days, and it is entirely possible that they could use that for all their work, subject to the availability of tools for their particular course, and since they will already be communicating with others on the Internet, communicating with people in the university is not really anything different from what they are already doing. But still, there are good reasons for providing infrastructure for students to use, even if those students do end up working from their laptops, uploading assignments when they are done, and forwarding their mail to their personal accounts.

The Student Starter Kit

First and foremost, a university e-mail account is something that can act as an official communications channel. One could certainly get away with using some other account, perhaps provided by a free online service like Google or Yahoo, but if something went wrong somewhere – the account gets taken over by an imposter and then gets shut down, for example – that channel of communication gets closed and important information may be lost.

The matter of how students carry out their work is also important. In computer science, where my experiences come from and where computer usage is central to the course, it is necessary to have access to suitable tools to undertake assignments. As everyone who has used technology knows, the matter of “setting stuff up” is one that often demands plenty of time and distracts from the task at hand, and when running a course that requires the participants to install programs before they can make use of the learning materials, considerable amounts of time are wasted on installing programs and troubleshooting. Thus, providing a ready-to-use environment allows students to concentrate on their work and to more easily relate to the learning materials.

There is the matter of the nature of teaching environments and the tools chosen. Teaching environments also allow students to become familiar with desirable practices when finding solutions to the problems in their assignments. In software engineering, for example, the use of version control software encourages a more controlled and rational way of refining a program under development. Although the process itself may not be recognised and rewarded when an assignment is assessed, it allows students to see how things should be done and to take full advantage of the opportunity to learn provided by the institution.

Naturally, it should be regarded as highly undesirable to train students to use specific solutions provided by selected vendors, as opposed to educating them to become familiar with the overarching concepts and techniques of a particular field. Schools and universities are not vocational training institutions, and they should seek to provide their students with transferable skills and knowledge that can be applied generally, instead of taking the easy way out and training those students to perform repetitive tasks in “popular” software that gives them no awareness of why they are doing those things or any indication that the rest of the world might be doing them in other ways.

Minority Rule

So even if students arrive at their place of learning somewhat equipped to learn, communicate and do their work, there may still be a need for a structured environment to be provided for them. At that place of learning they will join those employed there who already have a structured environment in place to be able to do their work, whether that is research, teaching or administration. It makes a certain amount of sense for the students to join those other groups in the infrastructure already provided. Indeed, considering the numbers of people involved, with the students outnumbering all other groups put together by a substantial margin, one might think that the needs of the students would come first. Sadly, things do not always work that way.

First of all, students are only ever “passing through”. While some university employees may be retained for similar lengths of time – especially researchers and others on temporary contracts (a known problem with social and ethical dimensions of its own) – others may end up spending most of their working life there. As a result, the infrastructure is likely to favour such people over time as their demands are made known year after year, with any discomfort demanding to be remedied by a comfortable environment that helps those people do their work. Not that there is anything wrong with providing employees with a decent working environment: employers should probably do even more to uphold their commitments in this regard.

But when the demands and priorities of a relatively small group of people take precedence over what the majority – the students – need, one can argue that such demands and priorities have begun to subvert the very nature of the institution. Imposing restrictions on students or withholding facilities from them just to make life easier for the institution itself is surely a classic example of “the tail wagging the dog”. After all, without students and teaching an institution of higher education can no longer be considered a university.

Outsourcing Responsibility

With students showing up every year and with an obligation to provide services to them, one might imagine that an institution might take the opportunity to innovate and to evaluate ways in which it might stand out amongst the competition, truly looking after the group of people that in today’s increasingly commercialised education sector are considered the institution’s “customers”. When I was studying for my degree, the university’s mathematics department was in the process of developing computer-aided learning software for mathematics, which was regarded as a useful way of helping students improve their understanding of the course material through the application of knowledge recently acquired. However, such attempts to improve teaching quality are only likely to get substantial funding either through teaching-related programmes or by claiming some research benefit in the field of teaching or in another field. Consequently, developing software to benefit teaching is likely to be an activity located near the back of the queue for attention in a university, especially amongst universities whose leadership regard research commercialisation as their top priority.

So it becomes tempting for universities to minimise costs around student provision. Students are not meant to be sophisticated users whose demands must be met, mostly because they are not supposed to be around for long enough to be comfortable and for those providing services to eventually have to give in to student demands. Moreover, university employees are protected by workplace regulation (in theory, at least) whereas students are most likely protected by much weaker regulation. To take one example, whereas a university employee could probably demand appropriate accessibility measures for a disability they may have, students may have to work harder to get their disabilities recognised and their resulting needs addressed.

The Costs of Doing Business

So, with universities looking to minimise costs and to maximise revenue-generating opportunities, doing things like running infrastructure in a way that looks after the needs of the student and researcher populations seems like a distraction. University executives look to their counterparts in industry and see that outsourcing might offer a solution: why bother having people on the payroll when there are cloud computing services run by friendly corporations?

Let us take the most widely-deployed service, e-mail, as an example. Certainly, many students and employees might not be too concerned with logging into a cloud-based service to access their university e-mail – many may already be using such services for personal e-mail, and many may already be forwarding their university e-mail to their personal account – and although they might be irritated by the need to use one service when they have perhaps selected another for their personal use, a quick login, some adjustments to the mail forwarding settings, and logging out (never to return) might be the simple solution. The result: the institution supposedly saves money by making external organisations responsible for essential services, and the users get on with using those services in the ways they find most bearable, even if they barely take advantage of the specially designated services at all.

However, a few things may complicate this simplified scenario somewhat: reliability, interoperability, lock-in, and privacy. Reliability is perhaps the easiest to consider: if “Office 365” suddenly becomes “Office 360” for a few days, cloud-based services cannot be considered suitable for essential services, and if the “remedy” is to purchase infrastructure to bail out the cloud service provider, one has to question the decision to choose such an external provider in the first place. As for interoperability, if a user prefers Gmail, say, over some other hosted e-mail solution where that other solution doesn’t exchange messages properly with Gmail, that user will be in the awkward position of having to choose between a compromised experience in their preferred solution or an experience they regard as inconvenient or inferior. With services more exotic and less standardised than e-mail, the risk is that a user’s preferred services or software will not work with the chosen cloud-based service at all. Either way, users are forced to adopt services they dislike or otherwise have objections to using.

Product Placement

With users firmly parked on a specific vendor’s cloud-based platform, the temptation will naturally grow amongst some members of an organisation to “take advantage” of the other services on that platform whether they support interoperability or not. Users will be forced to log into the solution they would rather avoid or ignore in order to participate in processes and activities initiated by those who have actively embraced that platform. This is rather similar to the experience of getting a Microsoft Office document in an e-mail by someone requesting that one reads it and provides feedback, even though recipients may not have access to a compatible version of Microsoft Office or even run the software in question at all. In an organisational context, legitimate complaints about poor workflow, inappropriate tool use, and even plain unavailability of software (imagine being a software developer using a GNU/Linux or Unix workstation!) are often “steamrollered” by management and the worker is told to “deal with it”. Suddenly, everyone has to adapt to the tool choices of a few managerial product evangelists instead of participating in a standards-based infrastructure where the most important thing is just getting the work done.

We should not be surprised that vendors might be very enthusiastic to see organisations adopt both their traditional products as well as cloud-based platforms. Not only are the users exposed to such vendors’ products, often to the exclusion of any competing or alternative products, but by having to sign up for those vendors’ services, organisations are effectively recruiting customers for the vendor. Indeed, given the potential commercial benefits of recruiting new customers – in the academic context, that would be a new group of students every year – it is conceivable that vendors might offer discounts on products, waive the purchase prices, or even pay organisations in the form of services rendered to get access to new customers and increased revenue. Down the line, this pays off for the vendor: its organisational customers are truly locked in, cannot easily switch to other solutions, and end up paying through the nose to help the vendor recruit new customers.

How Much Are You Worth?

All of the above concerns are valid, but the most important one of all for many people is that of privacy. Now, most people have a complicated relationship with privacy: most people probably believe that they deserve to have a form of privacy, but at the same time many people are quite happy to be indiscreet if they think no-one else is watching or no-one else cares about what they are doing.

So, they are quite happy to share information about themselves (or content that they have created or acquired themselves) with a helpful provider of services on the Internet. After all, if that provider offers services that permit convenient ways of doing things that might be awkward to do otherwise, and especially if no money is changing hands, surely the meagre “payment” of tedious documents, mundane exchanges of messages, unremarkable images and videos, and so on, all with no apparently significant value or benefit to the provider, gets the customer a product worth far more in return. Everybody wins!

Well, there is always the matter of the small print – the terms of use, frequently verbose and convoluted – together with how other people perceive the status of all that content you’ve been sharing. As your content reaches others, some might perceive it as fair game for use in places you never could have imagined. Naturally, unintended use of images is no new phenomenon: I once saw one of my photographs being used in a school project (how I knew about it was that the student concerned had credited me, although they really should have asked me first, and an Internet search brought up their page in the results), whereas another photograph of mine was featured in a museum exhibition (where I was asked for permission, although the photograph was a lot less remarkable than the one found by the student).

One might argue that public sharing of images and other content is not really the same as sharing stuff over a closed channel like a social network, and so the possibility of unintended or undesirable use is diminished. But take another look at the terms of use: unlike just uploading a file to a Web site that you control, where nobody deems to claim any rights to what you are sharing, social networking and content sharing service providers frequently try and claim rights to your work.

Privacy on Parade

When everyone is seeking to use your content for their own goals, whether to promote their own businesses or to provide nice imagery to make their political advocacy more palatable, or indeed to support any number of potential and dubious endeavours that you may not agree with, it is understandable that you might want to be a bit more cautious about who wants a piece of your content and what they intend to do with it once they have it. Consequently, you might decide that you only want to deal with the companies and services you feel you can trust.

What does this have to do with students and the cloud? Well, unlike the services that a student may already be using when they arrive at university to start their studies, any services chosen by the institution will be imposed on the student, and they will be required to accept the terms of use of such services regardless of whether they agree with them or not. Now, although it might be said that the academic work of a student might be somewhat mundane and much the same as any other student’s work (even if this need not be the case), and that the nature of such work is firmly bound to the institution and it is therefore the institution’s place to decide how such work is used (even though this could be disputed), other aspects of that student’s activities and communications might be regarded as beyond the interests of the institution: who the student communicates with, what personal views they may express in such communications, what academic or professional views they may have.

One might claim that such trivia is of no interest to anyone, and certainly not to commercial entities who just want to sell advertising or gather demographic data or whatever supposedly harmless thing they might do with the mere usage of their services just to keep paying the bills and covering their overheads, but one should still be wary that information stored on some remote server in some distant country might somehow make its way to someone who might take a closer and not so benign interest in it. Indeed, the matter of the data residing in some environment beyond their control is enough for adopters of cloud computing to offer specially sanctioned exemptions and opt-outs. Maybe it is not so desirable that some foreign student writing about some controversial topic in their own country has their work floating around in the cloud, or as far as a university’s legal department is concerned, maybe it does not look so good if such information manages to wander into the wrong hands only for someone to ask the awkward question of why the information left the university’s own systems in the first place.

Excuses, Excuses

Cloud-based service providers are likely to respond to fears articulated about privacy violations and intrusions by insisting that such fears are disproportionate: that no-one is really looking at the data stored on their servers, that the data is encrypted somewhere/somehow, that if anything does look at the data it is merely an “algorithm” and not a person. Often these protests of innocence contradict each other, so that at any point in time there is at least one lie being told. But what if it is “only an algorithm” looking at your data? The algorithm will not be keeping its conclusions to itself.

How would you know what is really being done with your data? Not only is the code being run on a remote server, but with the most popular cloud services the important code is completely proprietary – service providers may claim to support Free Software and even contribute to it, but they do so only for part of their infrastructure – and you have no way of verifying any of their claims. Disturbingly, some companies want to enforce such practices within your home, too, so that when Microsoft claims that the camera on their most recent games console has to be active all the time but only for supposedly benign reasons and that the data is only studied by algorithms, the company will deny you the right to verify this for yourself. For all you know the image data could be uploaded somewhere, maybe only on command, and you would not only be none the wiser but you would also be denied the right to become wiser about the matter. And even if the images were not shared with mysterious servers, there are still unpleasant applications of “the algorithm”: it could, for example, count people’s faces and decide whether you were breaking the licensing conditions on a movie or other content by holding a “performance” that goes against the arbitrary licensing that accompanies a particular work.

Back in the world of the cloud, companies like Microsoft typically respond to criticism by pointing the finger at others. Through “shell” or “front” organisations the alleged faults of Microsoft’s competitors are brought to the attention of regulators, and in the case of the notorious FairSearch organisation, to take one example, the accusing finger is pointed at Google. We should all try and be aware of the misdeeds of corporations, that unscrupulous behaviour may have occurred, and we should insist that such behaviour be punished. But we should also not be distracted by the tactics of corporations that insist that all the problems reside elsewhere. “But Google!” is not a reason to stop scrutinising the record of a company shouting it out loud, nor is it an excuse for us to disregard any dubious behaviour previously committed by the company shouting it the loudest. (It is absurd that a company with a long history of being subject to scrutiny for anticompetitive practices – a recognised monopoly – should shout claims of monopoly so loudly, and it is even more absurd for anyone to take such claims at face value.)

We should be concerned about Google’s treatment of user privacy, but that should not diminish our concern about Microsoft’s treatment of user privacy. As it turns out, both companies – and several others – have some work to do to regain our trust.

I Do Not Agree

So why should students specifically be worried about all this? Does this not also apply to other groups, like anyone who is made to use software and services in their job? Certainly, this does affect more than just students, but students will probably be the first in line to be forced to accept these solutions or just not be able to take the courses they want at the institutions they want to attend. Even in countries with relatively large higher education sectors like the United Kingdom, it can be the case that certain courses are only available at a narrow selection of institutions, and if you consider a small country like Norway, it is entirely possible that some courses are only available at one institution. For students forced to choose a particular institution and to accept that institution’s own technological choices, the issue of their online privacy becomes urgent because such institutional changes are happening right now and the only way to work around them is to plan ahead and to make it immediately clear to those institutions that the abandonment of the online privacy rights (and other rights) of their “customers” is not acceptable.

Of course, none of this is much comfort to those working in private businesses whose technological choices are imposed on employees as a consequence of taking a job at such organisations. The only silver lining to this particular cloud is that the job market may offer more choices to job seekers – that they can try and identify responsible employers and that such alternatives exist in the first place – compared to students whose educational path may be constrained by course availability. Nevertheless, there exists a risk that both students and others may be confronted with having to accept undesirable conditions just to be able to get a study place or a job. It may be too disruptive to their lives not to “just live with it” and accept choices made on their behalf without their input.

But this brings up an interesting dilemma. Should a person be bound by terms of use and contracts where that person has been effectively coerced into accepting them? If their boss tells them that they have to have a Microsoft or Google account to view and edit some online document, and when they go to sign up they are presented with the usual terms that nobody can reasonably be expected to read, and given that they cannot reasonably refuse because their boss would then be annoyed at that person’s attitude (and may even be angry and threaten them with disciplinary action), can we not consider that when this person clicks on the “I agree” button it is only their employer who really agrees, and that this person not only does not necessarily agree but cannot be expected to agree, either?

Excuses from the Other Side

Recent events have probably made people wary of where their data goes and what happens with it once it has left their own computers, but merely being concerned and actually doing something are two different things. Individuals may feel helpless: all their friends use social networks and big name webmail services; withdrawing from the former means potential isolation, and withdrawing from the latter involves researching alternatives and trying to decide whether those alternatives can be trusted more than one of the big names. Certainly, those of us who develop and promote Free Software should be trying to provide trustworthy alternatives and giving less technologically-aware people the lifeline that they need to escape potentially exploitative services and yet maintain an active, social online experience. Not everyone is willing to sacrifice their privacy for shiny new online toys that supposedly need to rifle through your personal data to provide that shiny new online experience, nor is everyone likely to accept such constraints on their privacy when made aware of them. We should not merely assume that people do not care, would just accept such things, and thus do not need to be bothered with knowledge about such matters, either.

As we have already seen, individuals can make their own choices, but people in organisations are frequently denied such choices. This is where the excuses become more irrational and yet bring with them much more serious consequences. When an organisation chooses a solution from a vendor known to share sensitive information with other, potentially less friendly, parties, they might try and explain such reports away by claiming that such behaviour would never affect “business applications”, that such applications are completely separate from “consumer applications” (where surveillance is apparently acceptable, but no-one would openly admit to thinking this, of course), and that such a vendor would never jeopardise their relationship with customers because “as a customer we are important to them”.

But how do you know any of this? You cannot see what their online services are actually doing, who can access them secretly, whether people – unfriendly regimes, opportunistic law enforcement agencies, dishonest employees, privileged commercial partners of the vendor itself – actually do access your data, because how all that stuff is managed is secret and off-limits. You cannot easily inspect any software that such a vendor provides to you because it will be an inscrutable binary file, maybe even partially encrypted, and every attempt will have been made to forbid you from inspecting it both through licence agreements and legislation made at the request of exactly these vendors.

And how do you know that they value your business, that you are important to them? Is any business going to admit that no, they do not value your business, that you are just another trophy, that they share your private data with other entities? With documentation to the contrary exposing the lies necessary to preserve their reputation, how do you know you can believe anything they tell you at all?

The Betrayal

It is all very well for an individual to make poor decisions based on wilful ignorance, but when an organisation makes poor decisions and then imposes them on other people for those people to suffer, this ignorance becomes negligence at the very least. In a university or other higher education institution, apparently at the bottom of the list of people to consult about anything, the bottoms on seats, the places to be filled, are the students: the first in line for whatever experiment or strategic misadventure is coming down the pipe of organisational reform, rationalisation, harmonisation, and all the other buzzwords that look great on the big screen in the boardroom.

Let us be clear: there is nothing inherently wrong with storing content on some network-accessible service, provided that the conditions under which that content is stored and accessed uphold the levels of control and privacy that we as the owners of that data demand, and where those we have elected to provide such services to us deserve our trust precisely by behaving in a trustworthy fashion. We may indeed select a service provider or vendor who respects us, rather than one whose terms and conditions are unfathomable and who treats its users and their data as commodities to be traded for profits and favours. It is this latter class of service providers and vendors – ones who have virtually pioneered the corrupted notion of the consumer cloud, with every user action recorded, tracked and analysed – that this article focuses on.

Students should very much beware of being sent into the cloud: they have little influence and make for a convenient group of experimental subjects, with few powerful allies to defend their rights. That does not mean that everyone else can feel secure, shielded by employee representatives, trade unions, industry organisations, politicians, and so on. Every group pushed into the cloud builds the pressure on every subsequent group until your own particular group is pressured, belittled and finally coerced into resignation. Maybe you might want to look into what your organisation is planning to do, to insist on privacy-preserving infrastructure, and to advocate Free Software as the only effective way of building that infrastructure.

And beware of the excuses – for the favourite vendor’s past behaviour, for the convenience of the cloud, for the improbability that any undesirable stuff could happen – because after the excuses, the belittlement of the opposition, comes the betrayal: the betrayal of sustainable and decentralised solutions, the betrayal of the development of local and institutional expertise, the betrayal of choice and real competition, and the betrayal of your right to privacy online.

Once upon a time, back in the microcomputer era, if you were a reputable institution and were looking to acquire software it was likely that you would end up buying proprietary software, mostly because Free Software was not a particularly widely-known concept, and partly because any “public domain” or “freeware” programs probably didn’t give you or your superiors much confidence about the quality or maintenance of those programs, although there were notable exceptions on some platforms (some of which are now Free Software). As computers became more numerous, programs would be used on more and more computers, and producers would take exception to their customers buying a single “copy” and then using it on many computers simultaneously.

In order to avoid arguments about common expectations of reasonable use – if you could copy a program onto many floppy disks and run that program on many computers at once, there was obviously no physical restriction on the use of copies and thus no apparent need to buy “official” copies when your computer could make them for you – and in order to avoid needing to engage in protracted explanations of copyright law to people for whom such law might seem counter-intuitive or nonsensical, the concept of the “site licence” was born: instead of having to pay for one hundred official copies of a product, presumably consisting of one hundred disks in one hundred boxes with one hundred manuals, at one hundred times the list price of the product, an institution would buy a site licence for up to one hundred computers (or perhaps as many as the institution has, betting on the improbability that the institution will grow tenfold, say) and pay somewhat less than one hundred times the original price, although perhaps still a multiple of ten of that price.

Thus, the customer got the vendor off their back, the vendor still got more or less what they thought was a fair price, and everyone was happy. At least that is how it all seemed.

The Physical Discount Store

Now, because of the apparent compromise made by the vendor – that the customer might be paying somewhat less per copy – the notion of the “volume licence” or “bulk discount” arose: suddenly, software licences start to superficially resemble commodities and people start to think of them just like they do when they buy other things in bulk. Indeed, in the retail sector the average person became aware of the concept of bulk purchasing with the introduction of cash and carry stores, discount stores, and so on: the larger the volume of goods passing through those channels, the bigger the discounts on those goods.

Now, economies of scale exist throughout modern commerce and often for good reason: any fixed costs (or costs largely insensitive to the scale of output) in production and distribution can be diluted by an increased number of units produced and shipped, making the total per-unit cost less; commitments to larger purchases, potentially over a longer period of time, can also provide stability to producers and suppliers and encourage mutually-beneficial and lasting relationships throughout the supply chain. A thorough treatment of this topic is clearly beyond a blog post, but it is worthwhile to briefly explore how savings arise and how discounts are made.

Let us consider a producer whose factory can produce at most a million units of a product every year, it may not seek to utilise this capacity if it cannot be sure that all units will be sold: excess inventory may incur warehouse costs and also result in an uncompetitive product going unsold or needing to be heavily discounted in order to empty those warehouses and make room for more competitive stock. Moreover, the producer may need to reconsider their employment levels if the demand varies significantly, which in some places incurs significant costs both in reduction and expansion. Adding manufacturing capability might not be as easy as finding a spare factory, either. All this additional flexibility is expensive for producers.

However, if a large, well-known retailer like Wal-Mart or Tesco (to name but two that come to mind immediately) comes along and commits to buying most or all of the production, a producer now has more certainty that the inventory will be sold and that it will not be paying people to do nothing or to suddenly have to change production lines to make new products, and so on. Even things like product variations can be minimised by having a single customer or few customers, and this reduces costs for the producer still further. Naturally, Wal-Mart would expect some of the savings to be passed on to them, and so this relationship benefits both parties. (It also produces a potential discount to be passed on to retail customers who may not be buying in bulk after all, but that is another matter.)

The Software Discount Store?

For software, even though the costs of replication have been driven close to nothing, the production of software certainly has a significant fixed cost: the work required to develop a viable product in the first place. Let us say that an organisation wishes to make and sell a non-niche product but needs to employ fifty people for two years to do so (although this would have been almost biblical levels of manpower for some successful software companies in the era of the microcomputer); thus one hundred person-years are invested in development. To just remain in business while selling “copies” of the software, one might need to sell one hundred thousand individual copies. That is if the company wants to just sell “licences” and not do things like services, consulting, paid support, and so on.

Now, the cost of each copy can be adjusted according to the number of sales. If things go better than expected, the prices could be lowered because the company will cover its costs more quickly than anticipated, but they may also raise the prices to take advantage of the desirability of the product. If things go worse than expected, the prices might be raised to bring in more revenue per sale, but such pricing decisions also have to consider the customer reaction where an increased price turns away customers who can no longer justify the expense. In some cases, however, raising the price might make the product seem more valuable and make it more attractive to potential customers, despite the initial lack of interest from such customers.

So, can one talk about economies of scale with regard to software as if it were a physical product or commodity? Not really. The days of needing to get more disks from the duplicator, more manuals from the printer, and to send more boxes to distributors are over, leaving the bulk of the expense in employing people to get the software written. And all those people developing the product are not producing more units by writing more code or spending more time in the office. One can argue that by adding more features they are generating more sales, but it is doubtful that the relationship between features and sales is so well defined: after a while, a lot of the new features will be superfluous for all but “power users”. One can also argue that by adding more features they are making the product seem more valuable, and so a higher price can be justified. To an extent this may be the case, but the relationship between price and sales is not always so well defined, either (despite attempts to do so). But certainly, you do not need to increase your “production capacity” to fulfil a sales need: whether you make one hundred or one million sales (or generate a tenth of or ten times the anticipated revenue) is probably largely independent of how many people were hired to write the code.

But does it make sense to consider bulk purchasing of software as a way of achieving savings? Not really. Unlike physical production, there is no real limit to how many units are sold to customers, and so beyond a certain threshold demanded by profitability, there is no need for anyone to commit to purchasing a certain number of units. Especially now that a physical component of a software product is unlikely to be provided in any transaction – the software is downloaded, the manual is downloaded, there is no “retail box”, no truck arriving at the customer, no fork-lift offloading pallets of the product – there is also no inventory sitting in a warehouse going unsold. It might be nice if someone paid a large sum of money so that the developers could keep working on the product and not have to be moved to some other project, but the constraints of physical products do not apply so readily here.

Who Benefits from Volume Licensing?

It might be said, then, that the “economies of scale” argument starts to break down when software is considered. Producers can more or less increase supply at will and at a relatively low cost, and they need only consider demand in order to break even. Beyond that point, everything is more or less profit and they deliver units at no risk to themselves. Certainly, a producer could use this to price their products aggressively and to pass on considerable savings to customers, but they have no obligation and arguably little inclination to do so for profitability reasons alone. Indeed, they probably want to finance new products and therefore need the money.

When purchasers of physical goods choose to buy in bulk, they do so to get access to savings passed on by the producer, and for some categories of products the practice of committing larger sums of money to larger purchases carries little risk. For example, an organisation might buy a larger quantity of toilet paper than it normally would – even to the point of some administrator complaining that “this must be more than we really need!” – and as long as the organisation had space to store it, it would surely be used over time with very little money wasted as a result.

But for software, any savings passed on by the producer are more discretionary than genuine products of commerce, and there is a real risk of buying “more than we really need”: a licence for an office application will not get “used up” when someone has “reached the end” of another licence; overspending on such capacity is just throwing money away. It is simply not in the purchaser’s interest to buy too many licences.

Now, software producers have realised that their customers are sensitive to this issue. Presumably, the notion of the site licence or “volume licensing” arose fairly quickly: some customers may have indicated that their needs were not so well-defined that they could say that they needed precisely one hundred copies of a product, and besides, their computer users might not have all been using the software at the same time, and so it might not make sense to provide everyone with a copy of a program when they could pass the disks around (or in later times use “floating licences”). So, producers want customers to feel that they are getting value for money and not spending too much, and thus the site licence was presumably offered as a way of stopping them from just buying exactly what they need, instead getting them to spend a bit more than they might like, but perhaps a bit less than they would need to if money were no object and per-unit pricing was the only thing on offer. (The other way of influencing the customer is, of course, the threat of audits by aggressive proprietary software organisations, but that is another matter.)

Regardless of the theory and the mechanisms involved, do customers benefit from site licences? Well, if they spend less on a site licence than they do on the list price of a product multiplied by the number of active users of that product, then they at least benefit from savings on the licensing fees, certainly. However, there are other factors involved, introducing other broader costs, that we will return to in a moment.

Do producers benefit from site licences? Almost certainly. They allow companies to opportunistically increase revenue by inviting customers to spend a bit more for “peace of mind” and convenience of administration (no more having to track all by yourself who is using which product and whether too many people are doing so because a “helpful” company will take care of it for you). If such a thing did not exist, customers would probably choose to act conservatively and more closely review their purchases. (Or they might just choose to embrace Free Software instead, of course.)

All You Won’t Eat

But it is the matter of what the customer needs that should interest us here. If customers did need to review their purchases more closely, they might find it hard to justify spending large sums on volume licences. After all, not everyone might be in need of some product that can theoretically be rolled out to everyone. Indeed, some people might prefer another product instead: it might be much more appropriate for their kind of work, or it might work better on their platform (or even actually work on their platform where the already-bought product does not).

And where the organisation’s purse strings are loosened when buying a site licence for a product in the first instance, the organisation may not be so forthcoming with finance to acquire other products in the same domain, even if there are genuine reasons for doing so. “You already have an office program you can use; why do you want us to buy another?” Suddenly, instead of creating opportunities, volume licensing eliminates them: if the realm of physical products worked like this, Tesco would offer only one brand of toilet paper and perhaps not even a particularly pleasant one at that!

But it doesn’t stop there. Some vendors bundle products together in volume licensing deals. “Why not indulge yourself with a package of products featuring the ones you want together with some you might like?” This is what customers are made to ask themselves. Suddenly, the justification for acquiring a superior product from a competitor of the volume licensing provider is subject to scrutiny. “You already have access to an intranet solution; why do you want us to spend time and money on another?” And so the supposedly generous site licence becomes a mechanism to rein in spending and even the mere usage of alternatives (which may be Free Software acquired at no cost), all because the acquisition cost of things that people are not already actively using are wrongly perceived as being “free”. “Just take advantage of the site licence!” is what people are told, and even if the alternatives are zero cost, the pressure will still be brought to bear because “we paid for things we could use, so let’s use them!”

And the Winner is…

With such blinkered thinking the customer can no longer sensibly exercise choice: it becomes too easy to constrain an organisation’s strategy based on what else is in the lucky dip of products included in the multiple product volume licensing programme. Once one has bought into such a scheme, there is a disincentive to look elsewhere for other solutions, and soon every need to be satisfied become phrased in terms of the solutions an organisation has already “bought”. Need an e-mail system? The solution now has to be phrased in terms of a single vendor’s product that “we already have”. And when such extra purchases merely add to proprietary infrastructure with proprietary dependencies, that supposedly generous site licence is nothing but bait on the end of the vendor’s fishing line.

We know who the real winner is here. The real loser is anyone having to compete with such schemes, especially anyone using open standards in their products, particularly anyone delivering Free Software using open standards. Because once people have paid good money for something, they will defend that “investment” even when it makes no real sense: this is basic human psychology at work. But the customer is the loser, too: what once seemed like a good deal will just result in them throwing good money after bad, telling themselves that it’s the volume of usage – the chance to sample everything at the “all you can eat” buffet – that makes it a “good investment”, never mind that some of the food at the buffet is unhealthy, poor quality, or may even make people ill.

The customer becomes increasingly “locked in”, unable to consider alternatives. The competition becomes “locked out”, unable to persuade the customer to migrate to open-standards-based solutions or indeed anything else, because even if the customer recognised their dependency on their existing vendor, the cost of undoing the mess might well be less predictable and less palatable than a subscription fee to that “preferred” vendor, appearing as an uncomfortably noticeable entry in the accounts that might indicate strategic ineptitude or wrongdoing – that a mistake has been made – which would be difficult to acknowledge and tempting to conceal. But when the outcome of taking such uncomfortable remedial measures would be lower costs, truly interoperable systems and vastly increased choice, it would be the right thing to do.

One might be tempted to just sit back and watch all this unfold, especially if one has no connection with any of the organisations involved and if the competition consists only of a bunch of proprietary software vendors. But remember this: when the customer is spending your tax money, you are the loser, too. And then you have to wonder who apart from the “preferred” vendor benefits from making you part of the losing team.

I recently had reason to respond to an article posted by the head of my former employer, the Rector of the University of Oslo, about an initiative to persuade students to come up with ideas for commercialisation to solve the urban challenges of the city of Oslo. In the article, the Rector brought up an “inspiring example” of such academic commercialisation: a company selling a security solution to the finance industry, possibly based on “an idea” originating in a student project and patented as part of the subsequent commercialisation strategy leading to the founding of that company.

My response made the following points:

• Patents stand counter to the academic principle of the dissemination of unencumbered knowledge, where people may come and learn, then make use of their new knowledge, skills and expertise. Universities are there to teach people and to undertake research without restricting how people in their own organisations and in other organisations may use knowledge and thus perform those activities themselves. Patents also act against the independent discovery and use of knowledge in a startlingly unethical fashion: people can be prevented from taking advantage of their own discoveries by completely unknown and inscrutable “rights holders”.
• Where patents get baked into attempts at commercialisation, not only does the existence of such patents have a “chilling effect” on others working in a particular field, but even with such patents starting life in the custody of the most responsible and benign custodians, financial adversity or other circumstances could lead to those patents being used aggressively to stifle competition and to intimidate others working in the same field.
• It is all very well claiming to support Open Access (particularly when snobbery persists about which journals one publishes in, and when a single paper in a “big name” journal will change people’s attitudes to the very same work whose aspects were already exposed without such recognition in other less well-known publications), but encouraging people to patent research at the same time is like giving with one hand while taking with the other.
• Research, development and “innovation” happens more efficiently when people don’t have to negotiate to be able to access and make use of knowledge. For those of us in the Free Software community who have seen how real progress can be made when resources – in our case, software – are freely usable by others through explicit and generous licensing, this is not news. But for others, this is a complete change of perspective that requires them to question their assumptions about the way society currently rewards the production of new work and to question the optimality of the system that grants such rewards.

On the one hand, I am grateful for the Rector’s response, but I feel somewhat disappointed with its substance. I must admit that the Rector is not the first person to favour the term “innovation”, but by now the term has surely lost all meaning and is used by every party to mean what they want it to mean, to be as broad or as narrow as they wish it to be, to be equivalent to work associated with various incentives such as patents, or to be a softer and more photogenic term than “invention” whose own usage may be contentious and even more intertwined with patents and specific kinds of legal instruments.

But looking beyond my terminological grumble, I remain unsatisfied:

• The Rector insists that openness should be the basis of the university’s activities. I agree, but what about freedoms? Just as the term “open source” is widely misunderstood and misused, being taken to mean that “you can look inside the box if you want (but don’t touch)” or “we will tell you what we do (but don’t request the details or attempt to do the same yourself)”, there is a gulf between openly accessible knowledge and freely usable knowledge. Should we not commit to upholding freedoms as well?
• The assertion is made that in some cases, commercialisation may be the way innovations are made available to society. I don’t dispute that sometimes you need to find an interested and motivated organisation to drive adoption of new technology or new solutions, but I do dispute that society should grant monopolies on entire fields of endeavour to organisations wishing to invest in such opportunities. Monopolies, whether state-granted or produced by the market, can have a very high cost to society. Is it not right to acknowledge such costs and to seek more equitable ways of delivering research to a wider audience?
• Even if the Rector’s mention of an “inspiring example” had upheld the openness he espouses and had explicitly mentioned the existence of patents, is it ethical to erect a fence around a piece of research and to appoint someone as the gatekeeper even if you do bother to mention that this has been done?

Commercialisation in academia is nothing new. The university where I took my degree had a research park even when I started my studies there, and that was quite a few years ago, and the general topic has been under scrutiny for quite some time. When I applied for a university place, the politics of the era in question were dominated by notions of competition, competitiveness, market-driven reform, league tables and rankings, with schools and hospitals being rated and ranked in a misguided and/or divisive exercise to improve and/or demolish the supposedly worst-performing instances of each kind.

Metrics of “research excellence” are nothing new, either. It seemed to me that some university departments were obsessed with the idea of research rankings. I recall at least one occasion during the various tours of university departments of being asked which other universities us potential applicants were considering, only to have the appointed tour leaders consult the rankings and make an on-the-spot comparison, although I also recall that when the top-ranked universities were named such comparison exercises drew to a swift close. Naturally, the best research departments didn’t need to indulge in such exercises of arguable inadequacy.

The Real Challenge for Students

But does the quality of research have anything to do with the quality of an institution for the average student? Furthermore, does the scale of commercialisation of research in a teaching institution have anything to do with the quality of research? And anyway, why should students care about commercialisation at all?

My own experiences tell me that prospective students would do better to pay attention to reliable indicators of teaching quality than to research ratings. Many of them will end up having relatively little exposure to the research activities of an institution, and even if researchers actively attempt to engage students with “real world” examples from their own work, one can argue that this may not be completely desirable if such examples incorporate the kind of encumbered knowledge featured in the “inspiring example” provided by the Rector. It is, however, more likely that researchers would rather be doing research than teaching and will be less engaging, less available for consultation, and just less suited to providing high quality tuition than the teaching staff in a decent teaching institution. Who cares if a department is doing “cutting edge” research if all you see as a student is a bored and distracted lecturer having to be dragged out of the lab for an hour once or twice a week?

Even the idea that students will go on to do research after their undergraduate degree in the same institution, presumably by forging contacts with researchers in teaching positions, should be questioned. People are encouraged to move around in academia, arguably to an extent that most well-qualified people would find intolerable even in today’s celebrated/infamous “global economy”. That undergraduates would need to relate to the research of their current institution, let alone any commercialisation activity, is in many respects rather wishful thinking. In my entire undergraduate era I never once had any dealings or even awareness of what went on in the university research park: it was just a block of the campus on the map without any relevance and might have well been a large, empty car park for all the influence it had on my university education.

My advice to undergraduates is to seek out the institutions that care about high-quality teaching, whose educators are motivated and whose courses are recognised for providing the right kind of education for the career you want to pursue. Not having been a postgraduate as such, I don’t feel comfortable giving advice about which criteria might be more important than others, although I will say that you should seek out the institutions who provide a safe, supportive, properly-run and properly-supervised working environment for their researchers and all their employees.

The Circus of Commercialisation

Lots of money is being made in licensing and litigation around commercial and commercialised research, and with large sums being transferred as the result of legal rulings and settlements, it is not particularly difficult to see why universities want in on “the action”. In some countries, with private money and operational revenue ostensibly being the primary source of income for universities, one can almost understand the temptation of such institutions to nail down every piece of work and aggressively squeeze every last revenue-earning drop of potential each work may have, if only because a few bad years of ordinary revenue might lead to the demise of an institution or a substantial curtailment of its reputation and influence. For such institutions, perhaps the only barrier being broken voluntarily is an ethical one: whether they should be appointing themselves as the gatekeepers to knowledge and still calling themselves places of learning.

In other countries, public money props up the education sector, in some nations to the extent that students pay nominal fees and experience as close to a free higher education as one can reasonably expect. Although one might argue that this also puts universities at the mercy of an ungenerous public purse and that other sources of income should be secured to allow such institutions to enhance their offerings and maintain their facilities, such commercial activities deservedly attract accusations of a gradual privatisation of higher education (together with the threat of the introduction of significant fees for students and thus an increased inequality between rich and poor), of neglecting non-applied research and commercially unattractive areas of research, and of taking money from taxpayers whilst denying them the benefit of how it was spent.

Commercialisation is undoubtedly used to help universities appear “relevant” to the general public and to industry, especially if large numbers can be made to appear next to items such as “patents” and “spin-offs” in reports made available to the press and to policy makers and if everyone unquestioningly accepts those things and the large numbers of them as being good things (which is far from being a widely-accepted truth, despite the best efforts of self-serving, high-profile, semi-celebrity advocates of patent proliferation), but the influence of such exercises can be damaging to things like Free Software, not merely creating obstacles for the sharing of knowledge but also creating a culture that opposes the principles of sharing and genuine knowledge exchange that Free Software facilitates and encourages.

Indeed, the Free Software movement and its peers provide a fairer and more sustainable model for the widespread distribution and further development of research than the continuing drive for the commercialisation and monetisation of academia. Free Software developers give each other explicit rights to their work and do not demand that others constantly have to ask permission to do the most elementary things with it. In contrast, commercialisation imposes barriers between researchers and their natural collaborators in the form of obligations to an institution’s “intellectual property” or “technology transfer” office, demanding that every work be considered for licensing and revenue generation (by a group of people who may well be neither qualified nor legitimately entitled to decide). Where Free Software emphasises generosity, commercialisation emphasises control.

Universities, whose role it is to provide universal access to usable knowledge, particularly when funded with public money, should be looking to support and even emulate Free Software practitioners. Instead, by pursuing an agenda of pervasive commercialisation, they risk at the very least a stifling of collaboration and the sharing of knowledge; at worst, such an agenda may corrupt the academic activity completely.

Can universities resist the temptations and distractions of commercialisation and focus on delivering a high-quality experience for students and researchers? That is the real ethical challenge.