An innovative use of motion sensors and a familiar video game encourages coordinated action on the part of otherwise non-connected individuals.

I’ve been looking into crowds and mobs, seeking to identify elements common to positive large-group experiences. This week, I picked up Barbara Ehrenreich’s “Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy,” looking for answers.

During truly ecstatic events, participants have the sensation of merging with the group, becoming part of a larger whole, and having the “experience of self-loss in the crowd.” With the temporary loss of individual identity comes the temporary loss of individual responsibility. Inhibitions are lowered and moral judgement may be impaired, since “the crowd” acts as one force. This explains how ordinary, generally moral people can riot, and how straight-laced conservatives can let it all hang out at Mardi Gras. (Yes, alcohol plays a role, too, accelerating the lowering of inhibitions and an increased sense of connection with others.)

Ehrenreich observes that instances of collective ecstasy are very much non-hierarchical:

Hierarchy, by its nature, establishes boundaries between people — who can go where, who can approach whom, who is welcome, and who is not. Festivity breaks the boundaries down. …

While hierarchy is about exclusion, festivity generates inclusiveness. The music invites everyone to dance; shared food briefly undermines the privilege of class. … At the height of the festivity, we step out of our assigned roles and statuses — of gender, ethnicity, tribe, and rank — and into a brief utopia defined by egalitarianism, creativity, and mutual love.

Ehrenreich refers to our modern era as the “postfestive” era, since centuries of hierarchical civilization have all but eliminated the class-undermining expressions of participatory joy that threaten it.

Given that, how can we design experiences of collective joy for a postfestive people?

The San Francisco Chronicle reports that yesterday’s 5-years-in-Iraq protest was well-orchestrated, in part thanks to frequent updates delivered to participants via text messages. C.W. Nevius reports:

I was told to simply text message the “DASW [Direct Action to Stop the War] text mob” to get up-to-the-minute messages describing the latest action sent to my cell phone. At 3:08:29 p.m., for example, I received a message that said, “DASW current estimate - 150 arrests - thanks for taking to the streets and joining in.”

This is the first time I’ve heard of a small, local activist group (Bay Area DASW) employing SMS to help keep their participants in the loop. It’s a great idea, and could shift the dynamic of other direct actions in the future. Protests can be intense and a little scary when you see hordes of activists running up against walls of police — “What’s going on down there?” “Is everyone okay?” Panic breaks out when individuals can’t see over the crowd to get the bigger picture. “Are we safe here?” “Should we keep marching, or turn back?” A centralized organizing committee, armed with binoculars and mobiles, can now monitor the protest status among themselves, sending only pertinent information about the big picture to participants, such as number of arrests, or “look out, tear gas deployed, head SW on Market.”

As part of my research, I’m looking into the psychology of crowds, and what makes some “crowd” experiences positive, and others negative. I had an experience recently that Joe suggested I document here.

In line at Boston Logan, I waited impatiently with hundreds of other people, bracing myself for the mad rush that happens just before and after the metal detector. You used to be able to put your bags on the conveyor belt and walk through, but now getting through security involves no fewer than 13 separate steps, depending on how you count them:

1. Remove any liquids and laptops from your luggage.
2. Place your luggage on the conveyor belt.
3. Place your laptop on the conveyor belt, in its own bin.
4. Remove your shoes.
5. Remove your jacket.
6. Remove your belt (if any) and empty your pockets of everything — wallet, keys, change — except for your boarding pass! You will need that in a moment.
7. Place your shoes, jacket, belt, and pocket contents in a bin on the conveyor belt.
8. Add to that bin a small plastic, resealable bag which contains any liquids or lotions that you want to take on the plane with you. Oh, and of those items, not one may exceed 3 fluid ounces. (Note that this step requires extensive preparation prior to arriving at the airport.)
9. Wait until a TSA agent gives you a blank stare, which is your indication to proceed through the metal detector.
10. Get scolded by the TSA agent for not holding on to your boarding pass, as instructed in step 6.
11. Deflect nasty looks given to you by the 8,000 travelers in line behind you as everyone waits for your boarding pass to be retrieved from the gray bin.
12. TSA agent now allows you to pass, having verified that you are in possession of a little scrap of paper that any 5-year-old could have mocked up in MacPaint.
13. Collect all your belongings, repack your bag, apply anti-fungal foot cream (aerosol varieties prohibited), get dressed in front of strangers who now hate you, and proceed to gate.

That would be stressful enough. But add to it general anxiety about flight, lack of decent food, sleep, hydration, and other physical and emotional stresses associated with travel, and most people’s general mood at this point, in the security line, is one of unpleasant anticipation.

So I’m back at Logan, it’s early, and I just want to make sure I don’t miss my flight. I have prepared for all 13 steps the night before. My lotions, liquids and gels are apportioned and sealed. My shoes are untied, ready for instant slip-off. I’m trying not to make eye contact with anyone, assuming they all feel the same way — grumpy and distressed — but it turns out they don’t.

I only know that because Mr. TSA himself decided we needed a little refresher course. He approaches, walking alongside us, lifting a number of large bottles of verboten shampoos and suntan lotion into the air. He is literally yelling: “THIS IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOUR LIQUIDS. YOU MUST PUT ALL YOUR LIQUIDS INTO A SMALL PLASTIC BAG.” He is five feet away from my face and yelling directly into it. The corridor is about 20 feet wide; I think he could use his indoor voice and communicate more effectively. But he continues down the line, hitting all 13 items on our to-do lists at full volume.

Finally, having reached the last passenger, he shuts up, turns around, and starts heading back to his post. And that’s when the horrifically magical moment happened: Someone said “thank you.” Thank you! This verbally abusive authority figure has, in my eyes, been nothing but rude, obnoxious, and insulting, lecturing us about things that we should already know. But someone thanked him for what I interpreted as abuse. And then another person thanked him. And another. And soon, once about ten people had said “thank you,” he felt obligated to respond with “you’re welcome.”

Did this people think he was doing them a favor? Did they think he was a hero? Have TSA agents been elevated to the mythical level of firefighters and first responders? “You can do no wrong. You are keeping our country safe. Thank you for everything.”

It was fascinating to me that anyone would respond this way, and that after the first “thank you,” that others followed. What does that say about the crowd’s dynamic relating to this authority figure? How can the collective emotion be so different from my own? And how can this sort of interaction inform our approach to emotional designs?