The Digital Campfire

One of the most magical places to be is around a campfire. Sipping hot cider or hot cocoa, bundled under a blanket, watching flames lick around logs, while listening to the stories of the people you love and care for. Somehow, the stories are somewhat different than other stories. Maybe it’s the way the heat radiates from the flames, or the way those who tell stories gather around. Maybe it’s the way the campfire entrances; it brings people closer to the light because we can, innately, feel the darkness that circles behind us.

There is a magic to the campfire. It saves us from the darkness, but it also makes us feel like we are closer to that darkness at the same time. The stories we share also bring the darkness closer to the fires, but the fire is always there to keep it from being too close. It protects us, in a way, reminding us that the darkness can’t actually touch us - it’s just the stories that make it feel closer.

Essentially, there is a type of “as if” play going on. We talk about the things that go bump in the night, feeling that they’re just behind us in that encroaching darkness. But by the time the story is over, and we return to the safety of the fire, it’s all gone. When we retreat to our tents, let the fire slowly burn out, the things we jumped at during the stories do not come and get us - the sun rises, and we are not surprised to see that happen. And yet, when we are there, in the dark, it all feels like it’s there, waiting in the encroaching darkness.

We play with reality when we tell stories around a campfire. In that moment, we play on the fact that the flames dance, and the darkness lurks, and we give ourselves over to that. The crunching of leaves is no longer a rabbit or deer, but a monster brought to life from the narratives woven over the fire.

I talk more about the digital campfire and digital monsters in my book Digital Monsters.

This is also the digital campfire, the place we gather to tell stories online. We may not be bundled up with a blanket and hot cocoa - though we absolutely might be - but the affects are the same. The realism of the narratives, the way we give ourselves over to the as-if’s of the narratives, causes the heart to pound a little faster. But when you leave the campfire, packed up the tent and gone home, the pounding is gone and the narrative lingers as a fun story that entertained you on a clear and cold night.

We, as humans, love this campfire, and the online environments we now find ourselves is are not devoid of the things we need. We need stories because humans are just big bags of stories wrapped up in flesh. When we move locations, we seek these types of experiences. We tell stories at a cafe in a way that makes our friends lean in close and react with joy or dismay or disgust. We engage with narratives with a willingness to belief, rather than a distrust and suspension of disbelief. And narraives play with this reality when it draws us closer to the darkness, or plays with belief with the way we love to delve in, no looking back. The internet is no different, and its in some spaces that we find this digital campfire to snuggle up and listen to a good story.

The play with reality and belief is fun, but mostly as a way through which the narrative can truly thrive, rather than an engagement to fool or trick. Beyond that, most participating with he narrative are in on the level of reality, and know the story to be fictional. It’s just a fun story to tell around a campfire.