Charles
Grisham
Edward
Ayers
|
|
Why
IT Has Not Paid Off
As
Hoped (Yet)
Information
technology has not changed classroom teaching at
UVa, but it is streamlining administrative tasks
and opening up new ways for scholars to interact.
Those
of us who have been involved in the long courtship
between higher education and information
technology can recall many ups and downs in the
last 30 years or so. We can recall the days when
the notion of a "computer center" made
sense, when there was a place where "the
computer" lived, where attendants worked the
mysterious mainframe, where our printouts were
delivered rolled up in boxes like thick mail. We
can recall the days of the first PCs dedicated to
word-processing — Wang computers with
daisy-wheel printers that clattered like little
Gatling guns. We can recall the first Mac, holding
out the promise that computing might actually be
fun, a promise held out too by the first laser
printers and desktop publishing. We can recall our
introduction to e-mail and the Internet, to
discussion groups and lists. We can recall when we
first saw Mosaic, Netscape, and the World Wide
Web. And it already seems hard to believe that
there was a time when Word and PowerPoint and
Excel were not a lingua franca, when PDF and Flash
and MP3 files did not flow across fast networks.
At
each step along the way, some of the more
impressionable among us thought that one
innovation or another would push us over the top,
that we had finally gained the critical mass that
would channel the undeniable power of IT into
higher education. We watched as commerce was
transformed, as entertainment was transformed, as
personal communication was transformed, and we
kept waiting for the moment when higher education
would be transformed in the same way.
In
particular, we waited for the time when the very
heart of education — the classroom and the
scholarship taught in that classroom — would be
transformed. But despite the tremendous
investments that all institutions of higher
education have made in IT, despite the number of
classrooms we have wired and the number of laptops
we have mandated, the vast majority of our classes
proceed as they have for generations—isolated,
even insulated, from the powerful networks we use
in the rest of our lives.
Moreover,
the form in which scholarship appears has barely
changed, despite all the revolutions in computing.
Across almost every field, researchers, no matter
how sophisticated the technology they use in
discovery, translate those discoveries into simple
word-processed documents. Sure, we sometimes add
JPEG images and other simple illustrations, and in
the sciences, pre-prints rush around the world
long before the articles appear in print journals,
but merely putting scholarly discourse into HTML
and PDF formats has not changed scholarship in any
significant manner. The nature of argument
has remained remarkably resistant to innovation in
rhetoric or form in every field of scholarly
endeavor.
We
all know about the remarkable changes in distance
education over the last decade, about the
invention of virtual universities and online
courses. Those enterprises, profit or nonprofit,
show every sign of growing exponentially as
demographic patterns and availability encourage
more investment. But the places that have been the
heart of higher education — residential colleges
and universities -- have remained relatively
immune.
Just
as IT has transformed the context of teaching and
scholarship without transforming either teaching
or scholarship itself, so has IT transformed
higher education without transforming the places
that set the standards for education. Online
colleges and universities still teach what is
learned in the research labs and libraries of
residential colleges and universities. Although
demographic, technological, and economic changes
are opening doors to many people who cannot attend
residential schools — a fact that we all applaud
— those residential schools aren't going away.
Indeed, they are more important than ever. We have
not discovered, and are not likely to discover, a
better way to foster and convey most forms of
knowledge than the learning communities that
created all the key technologies we are talking
about today. And yet those places resist, even if
passively, the same tools that are transforming
distance education.
So
we observe two parallel ironies in the IT
transformation: (1) teaching and scholarship, the
things we've created colleges and universities
for, have been the institutional aspects least
touched by the new technologies, and (2)
residential colleges and universities, the places
that stand at the heart of our educational system,
have been the higher education institutions least
transformed by IT. And there is a third,
corresponding irony: in most fields —
particularly in the humanities, social sciences,
and the arts—the more elite the scholar and the
institution in which she or he works, the less
likely the scholar is to take advantage of the
major technological and social change of our time.
In other words, the greater the potential
resources at their command, the less interest many
faculty seem to express in integrating new
technologies into their teaching and scholarship.
Though
this may be an irony, it is not really a puzzle:
people at the top have fewer incentives to
innovate. They have flourished in the world of
paper and talk and, not surprisingly, see little
reason to introduce the network and the screen
into their teaching and scholarship. And they see
little reason to hire or promote others who do use
the technology. Deans and provosts take their cues
from leading faculty, and so they do not push IT
as they might — and, in fact, as they did five
years ago. Thus we're witnessing a strange IT
revolution in higher education. Institutions that
lead in every other facet of higher education are
not leading in this transformation. It could be
argued that they are even less likely to lead in
the near future, if things continue as they are.
The
pressure for innovation has cooled from the
superheated environment of five years ago. The
title of a recent attention-getting article in Harvard
Business Review puts it bluntly: "IT
Doesn't Matter." Though the article by
Nicholas G. Carr is not addressed to education
leaders, the title is a direct challenge to the
motto on the cover of EDUCAUSE Review:
"Why IT Matters to Higher Education."
The article's point is simple: "You only gain
an edge over rivals by having or doing something
that they can't have or do. By now, the core
functions of IT — data storage, data processing,
and data transport — have become available and
affordable to all. Their very power and presence
have begun to transform them from potentially
strategic resources into commodity factors of
production." The article's advice to
companies, therefore, is to spend as little on IT
as possible. Its three easy rules must surely
cause the blood to run cold in the veins of IT
corporation executives: "Spend less. Follow,
don't lead. Focus on vulnerabilities, not
opportunities." IT has become
infrastructure—essential but invisible, a poor
focus for creative energies.1
The
article is being widely debated and discussed, its
more sweeping conclusions challenged. Yet we can
certainly see the general patterns in colleges and
universities today. The trends are toward turning
IT into a commodity — with uniformity,
interchangeability, cheapness, and virtual
invisibility as the highest goals.
The
accomplishments of colleges and universities, like
their technology, have tended to become invisible
because they have been so successful.
If
you had told people ten years ago that card
catalogs would virtually disappear over the next
decade, to be replaced by the systems we now enjoy
for the management of all forms of information,
they would not have believed you. The real heroes
of the digital revolution in higher education are
librarians; they are the people who have seen the
farthest, done the most, accepted the hardest
challenges, and demonstrated most clearly the
benefits of digital information. In the process,
they have turned their own field upside down and
have revolutionized their own professional
training. It is a testimony to their success that
we take their achievement for granted.
Similarly,
much of the technological infrastructure of
colleges and universities has been transformed in
a remarkably brief period. Our own institution —
the University of Virginia (UVa) — is a good
example. The university has devised several
strategies and tools to take advantage of the
infrastructure that has developed and matured over
the last ten years or so.2
Partnerships
between UVa academic and administrative units have
transformed the educational infrastructure in many
ways, pooling resources and breaking down
traditional barriers. One of the most successful
technology transformations at UVa has been the Instructional
Toolkit, a Web-based suite of easy-to-use
tools that permit any faculty member, even those
with minimal computer skills, to create and
populate a course Web site. The Toolkit allows
instructors to post a syllabus, store materials
online, view up-to-date class rosters (including
pictures of each student), maintain a course
grade-book, send e-mail to the class, and perform
many other course-related functions. It is used
for approximately 90 percent of the courses taught
at UVa, where faculty and students now take the
Toolkit for granted as an essential course tool.
UVa
also manages and supports a group of 207 students,
staff, and faculty—designated as Local
Support Partners (LSPs)—who each bear
specific support responsibilities for an academic
department or administrative unit at the
university. The LSPs are well-known by the faculty
and staff they support, they understand the
discipline, and they provide a friendly face
whenever a computer needs maintenance or whenever
any other technology-related problem occurs. This
highly successful program has been warmly received
by the university community since its inception
ten years ago. LSPs meet together several times a
year for conferences, where they receive valuable
training and exposure to new developments in
technology at UVa.
In
the past year, using a database program that
permits highly secure storage and retrieval of
imaged documents, the College and Graduate School
of Arts and Sciences has converted all faculty
paper records (more than 600 files) and most of
the undergraduate student records (12,000 files)
to electronic, imaged documents. Academic deans
and their staff can retrieve and consult these
documents in seconds, without relying on bulky,
insecure paper documents. UVa is now considering
the purchase of a site license that would make
this document-imaging software available for
hundreds of uses in all academic and
administrative units.
Advising
undergraduate students is one of the most
important services faculty can provide to the
university, and yet it is one of the most
difficult to do well. The College and Graduate
School of Arts and Sciences has revolutionized the
student-advising process with the implementation
of a variety of electronic
advising tools that provide both academic and
personal information on students to each of the
more than six hundred faculty advisors. Before
these electronic enhancements, the Dean's Office
at the College of Arts and Sciences was required
to mail thousands of pages of student information
to faculty advisors twice a year. The complexities
of this process meant that the paperwork was
outdated by the time it reached the faculty
advisors' desks. With the new electronic,
Web-based tools, faculty receive up-to-the-minute
academic information on each student advisee as
the student arrives at the faculty member's office
for the advising meeting. Faculty are able to
discuss students' course schedules thoughtfully,
and they find it easy to advise students on course
selections and other academic choices.
This
past April, UVa unveiled an electronic,
school-wide course-evaluation system. Before this
spring, the various departments of the Schools of
Arts and Sciences, Engineering, Education, and
Nursing had spent more than $60,000 per year to
conduct student course evaluations. In the School
of Arts and Sciences, course evaluations were done
on a department-by-department basis, with
virtually no consistency or uniformity. The new
online system, available through the Instructional
Toolkit, will save the College of Arts and
Sciences alone more than $40,000 per year.
A
new online resource called OSCAR now provides information on the research,
scholarship, and creative endeavors under way at
UVa. A three-part guide for exploring the
university's intellectual pursuits, OSCAR features
a searchable database of UVa people, projects, and
organizations. It also includes a news-publishing
engine that generates stories describing, for a
general audience, projects and the people
conducting them. And it holds a compendium of
resources for researchers, scholars, and artists
who want to further their efforts.
The
College of Arts and Sciences has also created a
new program that offers technology support for the
next wave—for those faculty who are eager to
bring technology into the classroom but who lack
technical expertise. The College
Technology Interns Program (CTIP) partners
fourth-year student interns with faculty to create
technology resources and online course content in
the college. The interns receive intensive
training in Web site development, Flash
animations, UNIX and Active Server Page
programming, and other related skills; they then
work one-on-one for two semesters with a college
faculty member, not only developing technology
resources for the classroom but also passing their
technology skills on to the faculty member. The
interns receive academic credit for this work, and
the program is free to faculty and to the college.
So,
interesting and important things have been done
and are being done at UVa by leveraging the
infrastructure. Similarly, challenging and
encouraging projects have appeared at schools
around the world. Just as Carr said in his Harvard
Business Review article, IT has become a
commodity, almost as invisible as the electricity
on which it runs. The success of such programs has
resulted in a cruel irony: when faculty look to
see if a book is in the library, if a student is
enrolled, or if their paycheck has been posted,
few think, "Ah, I will now use
technology." They most likely do not thank
their IT staffs (or deans) when this all works
just as it should, even though these online
services did not even exist a couple of years
earlier.
And
yet they do think: "I'm not sure I
want to use technology in the classroom." We
all know why: many classrooms do not have
permanently installed computers and projectors.
Instructors face the prospect of bringing a laptop
and a projector (if they can beg or borrow one) to
class. And the computer and the projector are not
the only problems. Most classrooms are not
designed to accommodate computer projection for a
class. Often, windows cannot be covered to darken
the room enough to see the slides, power
receptacles are too far away, there is no good
place to put a projector in order to project a
suitable image, and there is no screen or
appropriate wall on which to project. Classroom
sound systems are rarely adequate, if they exist
at all. Even in classrooms in which the equipment
is either reasonable or nearly so, the set-up and
take-down considerations between classes take too
long and are often too confusing and too
time-consuming for faculty who must think of other
things in addition to setting up a laptop, a
projector, and a PowerPoint presentation.
Those
of us who have seen what the new technologies can
do have to admit that for individual teachers and
scholars, the computer does not replace other
work; it only adds to it. Whatever the network
efficiencies we can gain in other aspects of the
institutional operations, the introduction of IT
into the classroom seems to soak up money and time
rather than save them.
As
the technical challenges of network, memory, and
software standardization lessen, the institutional
challenges remain great. Faculty who have
withstood all the excitement and possibility up to
this point have decided that they can withstand
whatever else is put before them until the end of
their careers. They go to their professional
scholarly meetings and attend only a few workshops
and talks on the new technologies; they read the
job ads and see that the jobs require exactly the
same credentials as were required a
quarter-century ago.
And
yet their students are changing before their very
eyes. A new book on the future of the public
university puts it well: "The traditional
classroom paradigm is...being challenged by
digital technology, driven not so much by the
faculty, who have by and large optimized their
teaching effort and their time commitments to a
lecture format, but by students. Members of
today's digital generation of students have spent
their early lives immersed in robust, visual,
electronic media.... They approach learning as a
'plug-and-play' experience; they are unaccustomed
and unwilling to learn sequentially — to read
the manual — and, instead, are inclined to
plunge in and learn through participation and
experimentation."3
A
study by a professor of reading states the case
even more strongly: "The fact is, when kids
play videogames they can experience a much more
powerful form of learning than when they're in the
classroom. Learning isn't about memorizing
isolated facts. It's about connecting and
manipulating them.... The secret of a videogame as
a teaching machine isn't its immersive 3-D
graphics, but its underlying architecture. Each
level dances around the outer limits of the
player's abilities, seeking at every point to be
hard enough to be just doable. In cognitive
science, this is referred to as the regime of
competence principle, which results in a feeling
of simultaneous pleasure and frustration — a
sensation as familiar to gamers as sore
thumbs." Videogames are built on "the
principle of expertise. They tend to encourage
players to achieve total mastery of one level,
only to challenge and undo that mastery in the
next, forcing kids to adapt and evolve." This
sounds a lot like what graduate school does too.4
We
know digital learning holds great promise for
making education more effective. And yet our most
elite (and thus expensive) forms of education are
doing an excellent job of resisting the wave of
social, economic, generational, and perhaps even
cognitive change that is transforming much of our
world.
It
is possible, of course, that this is a good thing.
Some of these trends need to be resisted, and not
all young people want to live in a virtual world
all the time. In fact, they may see the college or
university as a refuge from the media-saturated
worlds in which they have grown up. During the
current renovation of UVa's library, for example,
students have requested a
"computer-free" reading room — a place
for quiet, sequential thinking. In some ways, this
may be what our most prestigious schools are
becoming: beautifully outfitted reading rooms
built to preserve the virtues of older, linked
technologies: the book and the lecture. As
academicians who have spent much of our lives
reading and producing books, we understand that
impulse.
But
of course, we don't have to choose between the old
and the new, the analog and the digital, the best
of established ways and the promise of what is to
come. Precisely because we live in a time when IT
has become a commodity, we can get over some of
the hyperbole that has been our enemy in the
recent past. We no longer look for the imminent
death of the book or the demise of the physical
college or university. Instead, we can take
advantage of the conversion of IT into
infrastructure to consolidate our gains. We can
adopt what is best about the new technologies,
without all the heavy breathing. We can use IT to
make our institutions more efficient and effective
in the ways described above, ways that take
advantage of standardization and ubiquity.
But
we simply cannot stop there. The revolution has
taken the easy ground, the unprotected edges of
the city. The citadel remains above, with the
flags of the old regime flying: teaching and
scholarship at leading institutions of higher
education remain relatively untouched. How might
we take that citadel? Not by storming it. We've
tried that. We must take it from within.
We
need to make systemic changes in everything from
facilities to tenure, from our localities to our
professional organizations. It could be argued
that the machinery is just now adequate for the
next level of integration, now that it is stable
and standardized enough to make feasible what many
have long dreamed of: unlocking the power that we
all know lies within IT to transform teaching and
scholarship in beneficial ways. We're ready, as a
result of the commodification of IT, for another
burst of energy and innovation, to build on what
we've done during the last quarter-century.
We
now need to invest in people and content in the
same ways that we've invested in hardware and
lowest-common-denominator instructional software.
We need to encourage the key people in our
institutions—the best teachers and scholars—to
build what they want and need. We've built around
the content of teaching and scholarship; now we
need to build within teaching and
scholarship.
UVa
has been working on such an effort for about a
decade. In the early 1990s, with support from IBM,
the university created the Institute for Advanced
Technology in the Humanities (IATH). The basic
principle behind IATH is simple: match motivated
humanists with broad-minded computer scientists to
create new tools for understanding the record of
the human experience. Dozens of scholars and
partners in digital media have worked together in
fields ranging from ancient history to modern
literature, from architecture to anthropology. As
diverse as the projects have been, they all share
the goal of creating new tools, new possibilities,
and new audiences in new media.
One
of the two founding projects of IATH is Valley
of the Shadow: Two Communities in the American
Civil War. The idea for the project was
straightforward: put every piece of information
about every person in a Northern community and a
Southern community in the era of the Civil War in
a digital context so that students and scholars
would have an unprecedented command over those
millions of pieces of evidence. With these tools,
people would be able to understand the immense
complexity of historical change. The project was
conceived before the World Wide Web appeared —
it was designed to be disseminated on tape or disc
— but having been built in SGML, it was able to
move quickly to the Web and HTML.
In
the years since Valley of the Shadow first
appeared online in 1994, the project has won many
prizes, has been featured in Wired and the New
York Times, and is now the Civil War site most
linked to by other sites and is thus often
top-ranked in Google searches for "Civil War
history." Students at every level — from
middle school to graduate school — work on the Valley
project, producing papers and projects adapted to
the particular course in which they are studying.
Just as important, many people who are not in any
kind of school also turn to the project to satisfy
their curiosity about the Civil War and about
history in general. A single tool serves many
users. Though much time and considerable resources
were required to build the site, it leverages the
worldwide infrastructure of the Web to make the
most of that investment in an extremely efficient
way.
The
success of the Valley project is
surprising. It follows an idiosyncratic way of
approaching a familiar historical event. Rather
than gathering the information that people might
think they need to understand the Civil War —
biographies of generals and presidents, say, or
editorials from leading newspapers — it gathers
mundane information about anonymous people in
obscure places. The material it presents is common
and, in isolation from other material, not
particularly meaningful. Put in context, however,
newspaper articles take on drama and power;
personal letters and diaries evoke tears and
laughter; even census entries and military records
can bring chills.
The
power and the appeal of the Valley project
derive from the tools it uses. Although those
tools have been continually updated, they are not
exotic: databases, XML-tagged text, and a single
Flash animation. Standard though they may be,
these tools provide unprecedented control over a
large historical record. They change, as a result,
what that historical record conveys, and they
change what "history" means to the
millions of people who have visited the Valley.
The Valley project takes advantage of some
of the appeal of video games. As in a video game,
the user must work through various levels of
information to make paths, to find patterns, to
discover promising techniques. No one is shooting
at the user while he or she is making these
decisions, but a user cannot make progress in the Valley
archive, or gain adequate information to assemble
satisfying statements, without utilizing something
of the exploration, trial-and-error, and
serendipity process that one finds in video games.
Because
the Valley project was conceived by a historian
and built by several generations of talented
younger historians who have learned to think
digitally, it is firmly rooted in the discipline
in which it is used. Only a historian interested
in social, political, economic, and cultural
history would have devised such a strange tool, so
far removed from the commercial reference tools,
document collections, and games about the Civil
War. Only a historian would have access to the
conferences and other speaking engagements to
spread the word about the project. Only a
historian would give the project enough
credibility to get it reviewed in the leading
journals of the field and used in graduate
seminars.
The
Virginia
Center for Digital History, headed by William
G. Thomas III, has given the Valley project
an ex post facto legitimacy by creating a series
of elegant, sophisticated, and diverse projects,
each with its own funding, that demonstrate the
many ways the complicated past can be explored
through digital media. Each project deploys new
tools, perspectives, and methods, proving the
sustainability of digital history and taking us
beyond the particular techniques of the Valley
of the Shadow.
As
fortunate as the history of the Valley
project has been, however, it has by no means
established digital media as an entirely
legitimate form of scholarship. The project, after
all, makes no scholarly argument of its own; it
puts forward no thesis to be tested. It does not
provide a narrative of events against which
students can test their own interpretations, and
it does not engage the immense scholarly
literature on the Civil War.
As
a result, the team behind the Valley
project decided to try to close the circle.
Commissioned by the American Historical Review,
the leading journal in the discipline in the
United States, Will Thomas and Ed Ayers undertook
to make an argument—along the lines of
traditional historical scholarship—based on the Valley
project. They decided to return to the
long-glimmering hope that hypertext might permit
new kinds of exposition and analysis, using the
possibilities for more flexible linking afforded
by XML as an opportunity for a new pass at the
problem. Thomas took the role of lead author, for
he combines professional scholarly knowledge and
computer expertise in a way few historians can.
The "article" ended up being over three
hundred pages long in printed form. The capacious
digital medium imposed none of the familiar
constraints of word count and page size; as a
result, the number of references to the scholarly
literature and the amount of evidence deployed
rose to levels far beyond what is normally
possible or permitted. In this way, the new medium
allowed the argument to be articulated with a
precision impossible on paper. It also revealed
the compromises that scholars routinely make
merely to fit their work into a fixed medium.
The
article, "The
Difference Slavery Made: A Close Analysis of Two
American Communities", is an experiment
in professional standards as well as professional
practice. What would historians who had made
little investment in the new media think of such a
beast? What kind of reviews would these peer
reviewers write? How would the journal and its
editor handle "publication" of a digital
article that could live fully only in a computer
network? These questions are still being played
out, but from the authors' many presentations of
the article, it is already clear that people find
the concept, at the least, stimulating. Yet even
though the authors have worked to make the article
appear as natural as possible to historians by
hiding the ropes and pulleys of the machinery
behind the curtains of simple pages, it still
seems an alien being to many people, who see
nothing at all wrong with the paper journals that
have served the profession well for over a
century.
Whatever
the failures and limitations of "The
Difference Slavery Made," we have no doubt
that scholars will be writing in digital formats
before long. The opportunities are too great to
ignore, and the problems associated with the costs
of creating, publishing, distributing, storing,
and referencing print journals are too obvious.
One of the first things higher education did with
new networks was to convert archived journals into
electronic form. It only makes sense that we
should create journals that are meant to be used
online in the first place, with all the advantages
of native digital publication.
The
point of all the electronic projects at UVa —
whether advising and registration at one end or
the teaching tools of the Valley project
and the scholarly tools of the American
Historical Review article at the other — is
to show how we might take advantage of our current
situation. We can make IT more useful and
pervasive by working it more seamlessly into our
professional structures and practices, into our
proven techniques of teaching and scholarship as
well as research. Skilled professionals, working
together, can leverage large investments in
infrastructure into tools that benefit every
member of the academic community. That way seems
clear and promising.
Yet
larger challenges remain. No group has taken
responsibility for fostering the creation of
content. At various points, leading professional,
corporate, and philanthropic organizations have
stepped up to partner with teachers and scholars.
UVa has benefited greatly, for example, from the
National Endowment for the Humanities, the Andrew
W. Mellon Foundation, the Getty Foundation, IBM,
and other allies, but there is still a
disappointing lack of support for digital
materials for teaching and scholarship. In
general, reference materials, textbook
ancillaries, and teaching modules are being
produced in a sort of desktop-publishing model by
individual faculty, but no group is working with
faculty and academic leaders to create content
that faculty will respect as real aids in teaching
and scholarship.
Over
the last decade, as a result, American higher
education has created a doughnut IT
infrastructure: all periphery and no center. We
have invested in the machinery but not in the
teachers and the scholars to make that machinery
worthwhile in the classroom and in scholarship.
The massive investment in networks and computers
will not pay off until we fill in the hole, until
we work together to create content.
As
attractive as distance learning may be, the fact
remains that residential contexts offer the
possibility of a far richer digital environment
than do remote sites. Just as residential
institutions of higher education have led the way
before, they can lead the way again. They will
remain the centers of production of knowledge, the
producers of the ideas and methods that are taught
online, and we should make them the crucible of
innovation in the new technologies. We can
democratize higher education only if we use our
colleges and universities to build things that
wide audiences can and will use at minimal cost.
A
far-seeing company, or consortium of companies,
should establish an alliance with colleges and
universities to build the ideal institutional
environment to help lead the revolution from
within, working with faculty to create the tools
that people will actually use, establishing new
standards for enhanced teaching and scholarship,
and creating a living, ongoing alliance. Now would
be a great time to start—just when it seems that
IT doesn't matter.
Notes
1.
Nicholas G. Carr, "IT Doesn't Matter," Harvard
Business Review (May 2003), 5–12; for
discussion, see Steve Lohr, "The
Tech Rebound That Isn't Quite," New
York Times, June 23, 2003, (accessed
August 18, 2003).
2.
See
examples of these projects at U.Va. (Link no
longer functional -- editor.)
3.
James J. Duderstadt and Farris W. Womack, The
Future of the Public University in America: Beyond
the Crossroads (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 2003), 63.
4.
James Paul Gee, "High Score
Education," Wired, vol. 11, no. 5 (May
2003): 91–92, adapted from Gee's book, What
Video Games Have to Teach Us about Learning and
Literacy (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003).
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