Solace of Art

People do what is good only when they want to.

Last week, when I found myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary didn’t come to me. She was in a different neighborhood of Minneapolis with other matters to attend.

The trouble I found that day was not racist murder in the street, but mass murder in the air. Not perpetrated by four deranged police officers, but thousands of passive-aggressive shoppers and sales associates at The Home Depot. Most of whom were utterly indifferent to Covid-19. I watched as they crowded into and out of the big box emporium, with checklists and parcels, without face coverings or hand sanitizers — NIH and CDC be damned! I wondered as I watched: have I witnessed a more convincing demonstration of ingrained stupidity? Ever? I have not.

I sometimes refer to regular folks like those at The Home Depot as Joe and Ms. Sixpack — thus trying to dignify a condescending meme coined by a political moron more than ten years ago. I have claimed — without much evidence — that the Sixpack clan will overcome their acute health illiteracy and risky habits, their blimpy form factors and medication maladroitness, and they will take better care of themselves and their families, if only they are better informed about the science of the body and nudged to wellness. My self-appointed job is to inform and nudge; their job is to be happy and live in peace.

As a passionate health promoter, I have watched for months as governments and the fourth estate flooded the entire world’s population with health information (scientific and otherwise), across all media, at all times of the day and night, from every conceivable point of view. A sentient adult cannot by now be ignorant of the incurable and unpreventable Covid-19, nor of the potentially mortal consequences of being infected or infecting others, nor of the ONLY ways to control it: social distancing and personal hygiene. According to my understanding of the Sixpacks, this worldwide tsunami of health promotion delivered more than enough information to warrant their high health literacy and acumen from coast to coast, at least when it comes to communicable disease.

To judge by my observations in Minneapolis, I was wrong. The Sixpacks were blithely committing mass murder in public and private spaces like The Home Depot in Minneapolis, where coronavirus can freely swirl into faces and smear onto the hands of every incautious person who happens to be present, and afterwards into and onto everybody else they meet. Given the quality of health promotion that preceded this dreadful historical moment, the pandemic should not be continuing now. Yet more than 100,000 deaths and more than a million infections later, with dire predictions of a nasty resurgence coming in the autumn, the evidence so far seems to show that health promotion doesn’t work and doesn’t matter in the United States.

I don’t accept that conclusion, but at the same time I concur that it’s reasonable. After all, Humaginarium was founded on a premise that traditional health promotion — including health education — doesn’t work and has never worked well; that a different approach is needed to produce a different outcome. The outcome being that people do what is good for them and others only when they want to. This new approach is conditioned by the solace of art.

Art is the use of imagination to create and experience beautiful things. Art has existed as long as homo sapiens; it is arguably what makes us human. Solace is the comfort we give or seek in grief, the alleviation of pain or fear or anger or anxiety. As a word for being cheered up and amused despite sorrow, solace has been in our language since the 12th century.

A few hundred years after solace entered the Middle English lexicon, a poet named John Donne wrote his Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions (1624). In these lines, he both defined and exemplified the solace of art: its power to heal and encourage, no matter what the circumstances are.

How does art do this? By writing a prescription? No. By telling the Sixpacks what to do? No. By making them oblivious or stupid? No. By improving their healthcare? No. The Devotions work by facilitating understanding, choices and decisions to do what is right and good for ourselves and for others we rely on and who rely on us.

I’m giving you a particular Devotion below without further explanation; you’re an adult, you’ll figure out what it means without my help, if you want to. But I’m giving it to you with an earnest request in these times of trouble: that you read it slowly and slowly think about what it means. What it means not to me or to society or history or Ernest Hemingway, but to you individually and personally, right now.

Because believe it or not, you yourself are the most beautiful and wonderful thing in all of creation, and you deserve to be happy and healthy, and you have the right to demand it, and the power to achieve it. And now in memory of George Floyd and with love for every person who will someday come to Humaginarium with an illness that may never end, I declare and insist that no person is an island; and that even one person’s needless suffering or death diminishes us all.

For Whom the Bell Tolls, by John Donne
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

Hairy Balls

The best of all lives, now and forever.

There was a day last week when I juggled three hairy balls. It made me tense. It wasn’t fun. I kept thinking: I don’t know how to do this; I don’t want to do this; I can’t do this; I just won’t! Yet I persisted as my stress increased.

Those four escalations — from not knowing to not trying — may be typical of Humaginarium customers. It’s what I expect. I’m asking folks to play very, very challenging video games that are damn hard to figure out and win. At the same time I’m asking them to dwell on an illness they have, or most likely will get: something they prefer not to think about at all, ever.

Yet despite these difficulties, I expect folks to persist. Despite feelings of inadequacy, ignorance, vulnerability, resignation, victimhood, anxiety, helplessness, anger, resentment, anguish, denial — despite who they think they are — I expect them to get better.

Better as in happier, calmer, stronger, smarter, healthier. Better as in more confident, centered, resilient, competent and accepting no matter what their circumstances may be. Better not because of what Humaginarium does for them but because of what they choose to do for themselves. Not wishing for a life they can’t have, but honoring the one they do have: for each of them, after all is said and done, the best of all lives, for now and forever.

My juggling a few days ago was nowhere near that lofty. I was investigating and trying to master, within my own pathetic mindscape, three subjects that seemed to defy easy understanding: metabolism, time management, and illustration. Everybody knows these words. Everybody thinks they know what the words mean. Until they try to use them and suddenly the ground rumbles and crevasses open in the ice and they no longer know where to put the next step.

The hairy ball of metabolism is a subject so vast and complicated that it seems like a name for God. It is the process of turning death into life, other into self, entropy into growth… and so forth. It happens on the atomic level of synthesizing molecules right up to the organismal level of masticating calamari, and on all the barely perceptible gradient levels in between; and maybe on the cosmic level too, since we are stardust. Metabolism is the epic subject of Diabetes Agonistes.

The hairy ball of time management is business rather than science. In the course of configuring the beta version 2 of OfficeTime, I had to think very carefully about how I spend my time, which is not normal for me. As with money, I spend my time somewhat cavalierly, mostly going on habit, intuition and instinct, rarely thinking about systems. Now I was applying systems thinking to my role of CEO at Humaginarium. When I finally got the app running, it broke.

The hairy ball of illustration is technology rather than business or science. For years I have dipped into Adobe Illustrator like a pilgrim visiting a shrine, gazing cravenly at its burning candles. Lately I have been taking Deke McClelland’s 20-hour Lynda course Illustrator 2020 One On One Fundamentals. The Illustrator app is so complicated and powerful that sometimes I feel I am watching a course on advanced astrophysics rather than basics of digital art. Upon closer inspection I see that the candles are a burning bush. Thanks, Deke.

Juggling all three of these balls in the same day represented an enormous cognitive load: intrinsic, extraneous and germane. Extremely hairy and requiring much self-determination to persist in the face of probable defeat and very uncertain payoff. But I did persist, and I am continuing.

Why? Because by juggling hairy balls, I myself walk the talk of Humaginarium. I do these things (and others like them) not because they are enjoyable and rewarding (though they’re fun during bivouacs), but because they are hard and push me right up to my suffocating limits. Not in order to stop there and wonder, but rather to put my foot on the opposite edge of the crevasse and step over the yawning blighter.

Dark Matter

Monetizing new technology for the healthcare industry.

The MATTER Healthcare Incubator in downtown Chicago is closed for coronavirus. My membership there ended in December 2019, so dark MATTER doesn’t directly affect me. Still, I own a budding health tech startup and identify with the MATTER community, even if I’m not sure there is one. I may have imagined it.

I used to pay $320 a month for basic MATTER membership. That let me into a co-working space that I called the commons: filled with long tables lined on both sides with swiveling desk chairs a few feet apart. No desk lamp, no phone, no coat rack, no book shelf or stand, no library, no office supplies, no Ethernet; only a shared power strip to charge my mobile device and WiFi.

The commons also housed windowless, whiteboarded conference rooms and a classroom that are bookable for a couple of hours a pop. There’s a tiny kitchen with a coffee urn (yum, but empty most afternoons and evenings) and a vending machine for snacks. No seating in the kitchen; it’s not a break room.

Having no phones in the commons doesn’t mean it’s quiet there. Members often make calls on their mobile devices. That along with loud conversations, and the atmosphere gets pretty noisy at peak times. I usually donned AirPods and listened to music, to block the noise with more noise; there was no way to cancel it.

$320 sounds like a lot for a month of this, and it is, but it was less than MATTER membership at the next level up which includes baby office space. Glass-walled cubes may be fine for startups without real offices, though they’re a tight fit for more than a couple of occupants. Pricey again.

For comparison, MATTER membership costs about six times more than Polsky membership. The Polsky Exchange incubator actually has nicer space but it’s rather distantly located at the University of Chicago in Hyde Park; and is more for high-brow students and faculty than community. Polsky is now closed for coronavirus too.

I joined Polsky in 2016 and MATTER in 2018, not for office space of course or convenience. I joined to meet tech entrepreneurs with similar backgrounds and ambitions, mentors with keen business acumen, investors who have ardently mastered the business economics of innovation. I came to both for collegial interactions that might help me formulate Humaginarium right after the Big Bang, when its universe was filled with stardust.

I found some of that collegial interaction, though more by accident than design, and I’m glad. Yet most of the other members I met did not have similar or even comparable backgrounds and ambitions; and little was done by organizers of the incubators to facilitate new relationships among members.

Mentors too were kind of limited, coming from backgrounds that were generally solid but rarely exceptional. Most didn’t seem notably wise or experienced or well-connected. Not one shared my passion for health literacy, health acumen and medical self-efficacy — or even understood what these words mean. They and investors whom I met seemed impatiently interested in monetizing new technology for the healthcare industry — a thorny topic that sometimes seemed beyond their skill sets! I often felt some were there to learn rather than inform or coach or finance.

Which brings me to an awkward confession. I’m not interested in monetizing new technology for the healthcare industry. In fact I hate the contemporary healthcare industry and have no desire to put shiny new lipstick on its porcine face.

My passions are not for healthcare, Lord knows, but for people — known as patients in the healthcare marketplace, just people to me. Researching health promotion, I inevitably found that the most effective medicine in the United States today is named placebo effect; and the #1 cause of death in hospitals is clinical mistakes. I am not intrigued by a sinkhole where these awful things are true, no matter how personally enriching it may be. Monetization doesn’t make it good or right.

Now that MATTER is temporarily dark, would it be fair to say, when it was lit up and bustling, that healthcare incubation is about monetizing new technology for the healthcare industry rather than promoting the health and wellness of ordinary people? Yes, I think that’s a defensible observation.

Would it also be fair to say that the MATTER community — somewhere out there — is more excited about money than medicine and the well-being of ordinary people; that its raison d’être is to cut juicier slices from the pie of an overpriced, underperforming, now calamitous healthcare industry? That sounds very harsh indeed, but yes, it’s also a defensible observation.

Even if my observations are valid, they don’t change anything. MATTER is what it is bless its heart. Dark and light come to the same thing and, who knows, maybe household disinfectant or hydroxychloroquine will cure COVID-19 as well as a placebo. Sounds innovative. What do we have to lose?

Scientific

What one observes and what one imagines are mutually reinforcing.

Last week I poured a dollop of health literacy and a gobbet of health acumen into a shaker, and shook. Shaken thus (not stirred), they yield a heady cocktail known as self-determination. Why does that matter? Because the self is the most instrumental determinant of health outcomes. Literacy and acumen each by itself informs and weighs; together they empower.

I always call this cocktail “scientific entertainment,” an oxymoron that evokes what Humaginarium is about. We know what entertainment is: it is art; it is artifice that tells the truth and gives pleasure; it is amusement, enjoyment, fun that replaces what actually is with what might or should be in a world of our own making. Everybody knows what entertainment is because everybody needs it, wants it, pays for and uses it; goes out of their way to get it and feels anxious or frustrated when they don’t get enough. But what about scientific? Most of us use that word without knowing (or maybe even caring) what it means.

Science is knowledge; or more precisely systematized knowledge; or more precisely still, systematized knowledge that results from observation and investigation, and that is consistent with evidence. That last bit is the main difference between science and art. Both generate knowledge, but science is empirical while art is philosophical. No big deal. Many people believe that one is more valuable, practical, truthful, influential than the other, but they are wrong. Not only are science and art equal in importance, but each is incomplete and hobbled without the other. Art and science together are another heady cocktail whose parts may also be enjoyed separately, but why on earth would you?

The usual answer is, because science is hard whereas art is easy. Science is technical whereas art is creative. Science is boring whereas art is exciting. Scientific insight resists and eludes discovery and application, whereas artistic insight just lies there waiting to be apprehended, and is useless. All of these contradistinctions are drivel: they just aren’t true. Yet we organize many civilized endeavors, including health promotion, according to our beliefs in them.

I say “scientific entertainment” to prevent the two concepts from coming apart at Humaginarium. My oxymoron is a frank declaration that empiricism and philosophy are not, or should not be, distinguishable. I push this to the farthest extreme by dovetailing the most erudite of all sciences (biomedicine) with the silliest of all arts (fantasy). For Humaginarium, when it comes to health and well-being, what one observes and what one imagines are mutually reinforcing. Always! I am, therefore I think; I think, therefore I am. (Descartes got it half right.)

You will not find health acumen mentioned by the World Health Organization or the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in their campaigns of health promotion. Only health literacy. The reason for that is probably because literacy is scientific; acumen is fluff. Consequently, because of this scientific bias, their institutional essays on health literacy are generally unsatisfactory, futile, trivial, beside the point. Humaginarium hopes to improve the balance.

Nor will you find WHO and CDC tipping their hats to the arts as they bow to science, except on very rare occasions. Artists have no seats at the table of health promotion; all of the permanent seats are occupied by scientists and clinicians. Is that right and proper? No, it isn’t; it is disastrous. At Humaginarium we hope to do something about that as well.

Our hopes are not effusions of a company that has a dissociative identity disorder. Humaginarium is not trying to meld things that don’t belong together. We are not trying to be clever by getting funky with subject matter that is essentially technical. We are merely doing what needs to be done to break the cognitive chains that hold down the 98% whom I mentioned last week. Science can’t do it alone.

Or to put it a different way, we are making a heady new cocktail that is greater — far greater — than the sum of its parts. Shaken thus (not stirred).

Acumen

88% of American adults have reading skills equal or inferior to a child in middle school.

Literacy is the ability to read a vernacular. In the United States, about 18% of all adults are functionally illiterate. Either they can’t read at all, or their reading skills are less than basic: at best, equivalent to a competent third grader’s, 8-9 years old.

About 34% of American adults are basically literate. They can glean simple information from printed matter, but not make much use of it. At best, their reading skills are equivalent to a competent fifth grader’s, 10-11 years old.

About 36% of American adults are functionally literate. They can understand the meaning of straightforward text, but can’t parse or interpret it for implications and consequences. They have workaday reading skills, at best equivalent to a competent eighth grader’s, 13-14 years old.

All of that said, about 88% of American adults have reading skills equal or inferior to a child in middle school. Leaving only about 12% with purported “adult” literacy. Hold on, that’s actually an overstatement.

About 10% of adult Americans have adolescent literacy: reading skills equivalent to a competent tenth grader’s, 15-16 years old. Only a tiny 2% of all Americans have genuine adult literacy, the kind of reading comprehension that is mandatory for higher education and professional endeavor.

I had to give this context in order to introduce the topic of health literacy: an ability to read the vernacular of health care. The vernacular of health care is the text printed on forms, handouts and signage in clinical and pharmaceutical settings. It’s the text in books, articles and websites with health-related subject matter. Most health-related subject matter is applied or theoretical science. For example, it’s not about how to use soap (function); it’s about why soap produces better health outcomes (cognition).

The vernacular of health care varies quite a lot — from papers in the New England Journal of Medicine at the high end to printouts stapled to prescriptions at Walgreens — but all of it has this in common: it is practically unreadable and therefore useless for around 98% of American adults.

When Humaginarium announced, at its founding, that it will promote health literacy at scale, it rose to an enormous challenge that generally goes unnoticed, despite its gargantuan economic costs and impact on health disparities. We had to come up with a way to promote adult health literacy across a population that overwhelming lacks adult literacy of any kind. Now we have done that. We have invented a way that should work well for the first 87 million adults who use it; and we are preparing to build and test a prototype of this amazing innovation. That is kind of exciting.

However our research also exposed some deflating limits of health literacy. Even if and when we demonstrate and prove exquisite technology that increases the health literacy of most American adults, will their newfound literacy effectively ameliorate health disparities among them? Put another way, will mastery of the vernacular of health care actually make most people healthier, happier and more secure?

The answer is no, it will not. The best outcome we (or anybody) can expect from adult health literacy is more participative medicine. By that I mean better quality of communication between patients and their clinicians and makers of medicines. That’s a pretty good outcome, but not good enough. It is not the game changer we seek.

To finish the job we started, we also have to promote health acumen. That is the key to medical self-efficacy. Acumen is an ability not just to read, but to exercise good judgement; to make healthy choices in the absence of external direction and authority; to possess keenness and depth of perception when observing what is obvious to any inquiring mind; to discern what is going on below the skin and the palpable symptoms in a body; and to discriminate between meaningful and false signals from blood, flesh and bones.

Understood thus, health literacy is no guarantor of health acumen. It’s just a prerequisite. Because without mastery of the vernacular of health care, critical thinking that fosters acumen must be so profoundly impaired that it’s practically impossible. People cannot exercise good judgement if they are grossly ignorant of the relevant science; and biomedicine is not the stuff of middle school.

This is why I no longer say that Humaginarium promotes health literacy at scale. Instead I say that Humaginarium promotes health literacy and health acumen at scale. Not just for the 2% who already have their linguistic ducks in a row, but for the 98% whose ducks are paddling aimlessly around the pond while the sky over their heads darkens; those who foolishly hope or expect the health care industry to make healthy choices for rather than with them. To have health acumen is to believe that “I will figure this out; I will decide; and I will make my decisions stick, come hell or high water.”

Like Gandalf, Humaginarium has found a way. We found our version of Thrór’s Map and a key that opens the door in the Lonely Mountain of health care. Beyond that adamantine door, Smaug is dreaming atop a gleaming horde of stolen treasure. After a long and perilous journey, Humaginarium is coming for him.

Market

Healthcare treats health literacy as noise on its uneconomical fringes.

The mission of Humaginarium is health promotion. Yet strangely, there’s no market for health promotion. People aren’t buying it.

According to the World Health Organization (WHO), “Health promotion enables people to increase control over their own health. It covers a wide range of social and environmental interventions that are designed to benefit and protect individual people’s health and quality of life by addressing and preventing the root causes of ill health, not just focusing on treatment and cure.”

The emphasis here is on “individual people,” meaning consumers or patients – those I call regular folks. They are the targets and beneficiaries of health promotion.

The emphasis is also on “control,” meaning medical self-efficacy among those selfsame individuals. Health promotion is not supposed to benefit the healthcare or wellness industries that sell services to consumers. It benefits the people who have or risk illness.

The specific pillar of health promotion that concerns Humaginarium is health literacy. WHO says that health literacy enables people to “acquire the knowledge, skills and information to make healthy choices, for example about the food they eat and healthcare services that they need. They need to have opportunities to make those choices.”

Thus health literacy is not knowledge or skill or behavior, and certainly not health outcomes. It’s merely the ability of regular folks to learn, in order to make sense and use of their own choices.

In effect health literacy is a competence rather than an outcome, and it’s one that never comes naturally. It must be learned, and there’s the rub. Most folks may be educated, but few have even the most basic health literacy. They didn’t learn it in school. They didn’t learn it in clinic. They didn’t learn it from friends and family. They didn’t learn it by surfing the Internet. Why is that?

Well, I know of two reasons. One is biology as a second language. We must dismiss the advertising we’ve seen and remember that healthy choices are not consumer packaged goods in the supermarket. They are expressions and perceptions that employ the semantics of science. Healthy choices are really hard! The second reason is the information itself: the intelligibility and utility and consequences of choices even after you know what the words mean.

For example, you probably know the word bacteria, but what good is that without knowing how certain pathogenic bacteria got into your mouth and throat and lungs; and how they managed to thrive; and what they’re doing there; and how your body is coping with them? You cannot gain health literacy – you cannot become an individual who exercises control – without some level of scientific acumen that makes you aware of things like this going on in your body.

Mundane health promotion doesn’t make you aware in that way. It typically doesn’t increase your ability to understand and use scientific information. That privilege is reserved for denizens of the laboratory and clinic. Consumers get to pay the salaries of those professionals, with taxes and co-pays and health insurance. That’s mostly where their role ends, for now.

Taking a new approach, Humaginarium promotes health literacy by helping folks experience and play with science of the human body, so they can discover their own truth and make meaning personal. Few health promoters have inspired regular folks to believe they can do that. Maybe Humaginarium has found a way.

However there’s a problem. Remember what I said about the market for health promotion: there isn’t one. Humaginarium can’t go selling health literacy where nobody is buying it. We’ll have to sell it where customers are likely to show up and pay.

That isn’t in the healthcare industry, which treats health literacy as noise on its fringes. Healthcare rarely addresses or prevents the root causes of ill health, but focuses on treatment and cure. That’s understandable; it’s how companies create shareholder value. As a healthcare executive once said to me: “We’re not interested in wellness; we make money from illness.”

Thus the fringes of healthcare are littered with low-budget crap like self-help books and infomercials. Humaginarium doesn’t like fringes; we want to be the center of attention. So we turn to entertainment, where there is a huge market of individuals seeking to exercise control: the market for commercial video games.

In the video game market we know we can render scientific health information visually and dramatically, without bewildering language. Not to teach but to inspire many individuals with the experience of discovering and controlling healthy choices. First in enjoyable, escapist fantasy chock full of risky adventure; then with the real and persistent challenges of their own body and life.

Scientific entertainment. Male Nude, with Arms Up-Stretched (1828-1830), by William Etty. Pictured with small polymorphic bacteria which cause pneumonia, genital and urinary infections in stressful situations like this one.

Vision

To master chronic illness with understanding and control

A funding application on the workbench prompted me for a “vision.” Oh that’s easy, I thought; I’ll write one while the kettle boils.

I sort of did that; and the next day, when I saw the turd I had created, I suddenly realized that I don’t know what a vision is. Actually that’s not true. I know what a personal vision is; and I know what a shared vision is; but I don’t really know what a corporate vision is.

That’s because corporations, in my nonlegal opinion, are not people; they are abstractions. They exist only when you’re using or talking about them, whereas a real human being, or a group of folks, just exists. So how can an abstraction have a vision?

Stumped and stymied by this weighty question, I did what everybody does these days instead of praying: I googled it. Lo and behold as usual, Google answered with delightful speed and precision (which rarely happens with my prayers). It linked me to an article from down under, the other side of the world, where day is night; an article that explains – not how an abstraction can have a vision – but what that vision should be like. It was now time to set aside philosophy and (re)write the damn vision of Humaginarium.

I normally don’t share external links in this blog, but because this one is particularly useful and may save other entrepreneurs some time, I am inserting it here. You may read it if you wish; if you do, it may help you answer the question at the bottom of this page.

So then, drum roll please. The vision of Humaginarium is: Popular video game entertainment that inspires regular folks to master chronic illness.

Romantics like me expect visions to be exciting, even breathtaking, like Elon Musk making a crazy announcement or Steve Jobs throwing down the gauntlet. That comes from the notion that a vision statement is a coming attraction, but according to the experts down under, it is not. It’s not a call to arms, not an expedition to the Misty Mountains, not something you run up the flagpole and salute. It’s humbler than that. A vision is a very, very short description of what will be different in the world when the work is done and the dream has come true.

Popular video game entertainment that inspires regular folks to master chronic illness. My vision statement is appropriately short and it does sound matter of fact. Nonetheless it’s aspirational. I shall explain.

The word “popular” in it means accessible, affordable, convenient, easy to use and much loved: different from all past and conventional health promotions. If Humaginarium makes health literacy cool, it will be f***ing amazing.

Video game entertainment” is our flagship product; not the only thing we make, but the main thing. Why? Because our addressable market of 100 million consumers who like video games and have a chronic illness may flock to Humaginarium if it’s really fun to play. A few hundred may come if it’s merely edifying.

Our work “inspires” by awakening ambition and self-determination. These conative attributes are supportive of self-efficacy (the pillar of our brand). I say “conative” with trepidation because, though the word is older than the English language and is just as meaningful as “cognitive” and “behavioral,” I have never uttered it in mixed company without being asked, “What’s that?” I’ll save you a trip to the dictionary with this handy definition of conation: the mental faculty of purpose, desire, or will to perform an action. Inspiring!

Regular folks” are the kinds of consumers we serve. I borrowed the phrase “regular folks” from Chris Anderson (the futurist and writer, not the TED founder). He uses it when referring to people who are not differentiated by affluence or education. Regular folks is pretty much everybody I meet who is not pretending to be somebody different.

These folks “master chronic illness” by means of understanding and asserting control over it – in our games and in their lives. The chronic illness may be one they have or one they risk; both kinds of threats are mitigated by health literacy that is generated by Humaginarium.

So what do you think. “Popular video game entertainment that inspires regular folks to master chronic illness.” Good enough?