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The Image of the Metaverse
These speculative, metaverse narratives are written alike a travelogue, depicting a user’s journey across a hypothetical metaverse landscape that references past, present, and future trajectories for different parts of a growing, immersive landscape filled with communities of people. The reader can play with the structure of these narratives, and may choose to select a specific narrative based on the index below, read the narratives according to thematic clusters, or read the narratives chronologically. There is no definite end to this collection of narratives, and we foresee that speculative fictions attempting to image the metaverse will only become more numerous in the future.
* Pictorial Link: https://doi.org/10.1145/3715336.3735405

I. Arrival

Threshold. "Where physical meets virtual"

In Threshold, transition is everything. The mundane fades out and the virtual comes in strong. Hands move differently: trigger clicks, key taps, gestures in empty air There becomes here. The locals call this ''settling'', that moment when code becomes place, when virtual physics feels natural, when attention locks in.

Many of the metaverse worlds are isolated from each other, and from the physical world. There is room for designing a world in which the liminal, the transitional becomes figure rather than ground [28]. Indeed, recent augmented reality glasses have put effort into understanding how to transition from the physical to the augmented to the virtual and back again: gradually if possible, but abruptly if changes in the physical environment need immediate attention.

Cascade. "Loading screens and transitional spaces"

Cascade exists through a never-ending flow of portals. It exists in a permanent state of becoming, like a waterfall that never reaches the bottom. Its spaces assemble themselves endlessly. Data packets burst hollow out chambers, dense streams of code carve out corridors, verification checks build up layer upon layer of translucent barriers. Nothing here is fully rendered because nothing needs to be. Each space exists just long enough to guide you to the next. The inhabitants of Cascade surf these data streams in a thrilling rush, where half-formed signs and incomplete geometries are suspended between meaning and noise, each waiting to be resolved by the next packet of information.

Social VR platforms such as Meta Horizon Worlds, Roblox, or VRChat consist of a network of interoperable virtual worlds that are connected through portals. Users of these platforms can either pass through portals embedded within the virtual world, or make their own to drop into the next virtual world [40]. A paper analyzing and critiquing the architectural design of a popularity sampling of spaces in the metaverse suggests that these virtual worlds are becoming increasingly “provisional”, that is, to be made for a single, specialized purpose that may be as short as “telling a joke” or “changing your avatar”. This creates a parallel with traditional architecture, where spaces are built to last [20]. Metaverse and social VR platforms are often decentralized, or ‘community created’ in the sense that any user may upload new virtual worlds and assets [41].

II. Boundary

Asymmetry. "Where imbalance breeds invention"

In Asymmetry, no two inhabitants see the same way. Capabilities vary by choice and circumstance. Some appear in full detail, others as simple shapes or text. A meeting might include high-resolution avatars alongside basic geometric forms, each chosen for reasons of bandwidth, privacy, or preference. Participants have turned these differences into advantages. Text-only users become known for precise expression. Those using simple avatars develop eloquent gestural languages. Users with high-end systems learn to translate their rich experiences into forms others can share. The most interesting spaces embrace these variations. Special venues combine multiple levels of experience simultaneously. The locals seek out these mixed environments; sometimes the lowest resolution has the highest impact.

While metaverse worlds are in many ways less restrictive than physical worlds, because mass, materials, and gravity are all fungible, what is not fungible are computational restrictions. These vary; metaverse users have a plethora of different devices, ranging from small phone screens to state of the art VR glasses. And so, even if receiving information from the same rendering engine, they experience the space differently. Rather than try to overcome these differences, an alternative is to consider difference as a feature. The renderings of scenes can differ between participants. Indeed, in reality many kinds of information and entertainment consumption are individualized, as when, for example, people engage in VRChat while maintaining separate channels in Discord and BlueSky. The logical extension of this is to let users define the way they render the environment as well as the way they communicate. If followed in an extreme way, it may reduce the sense of sharing a reality. If done in a clever way, it will allow us to literally develop our own point of view and share our perspectives.

Rhythm. "Where boundaries are defined by time not space"

In Rhythm, time shapes space. Each time zone's mornings brings its wave of arrivals. First London bankers check futures, then New York artists enter their studios, then Sydney engineers join their labs. The spaces fill and empty, each with its own cycle, and each rhythm creates its own character and language for expression: the slow cadence of avatars cuddling up in quiet conversation under eternally starry skies, the chaotic rumble of trolls slinging memes at unfortunate passers-by, or the improvisational tune when two avatars unexpectedly coincide. Communities form around these temporal intersections. Events serve as landmarks. The right time matters more than the right place. Moving between zones to stay synchronized, once you are in your desired longitude, you can choose your latitude.

Social VR platforms such as VRChat are localized to geographical servers, allowing for an alignment of time zones and therefore activity. Social VR worlds are often characterized by cozy, nighttime environments where avatars gather for intimate conversations, drawing, watching videos, mirror dwelling, social sleep, all forms of slowness [34]. Social VR worlds are also characterized by their more chaotic nature, where ‘The Black Cat’ in the platform VRChat offers a chaotic, bar-like environment were avatars gather for socializing, people-watching, mirror dwelling [10], (virtual) drinking, and so on. It is prone to internet trolls, provoking a potentially unpleasant but equally interesting space. Unexpected and meaningful relationships form in social VR platforms. For example, the documentary ‘We Met in Virtual Reality’ (41) follows a sign language teacher dedicated to building a community for deaf and hard of hearing VR Chat users, as well as two long distance couples who met in VR and eventually continued their relationship in the real world. Social VR becomes another place for an individual’s everyday rather than a space for isolation. Moreover, while urban planning is designed around spatial relationships, teleportation and portals disrupt the design of metaverse space.

III. Navigation

Vector. "Where movement follows thought"

In Vector, distance is measured in intention rather than meters. The avatars do not walk or run or fly — they arrive. Each movement is an equation solved in real time: desire plus direction equals presence. They discovered early on that realistic motion was less important than meaningful motion. Over time, these patterns of intention shape how Vector manifests. Frequent destinations grow closer together through use, while rarely visited locations drift to the periphery. A businessman’s vector arranges itself around their daily routine — office, meetings, social spaces — while an artist’s vector clusters around galleries, studios, and sources of inspiration. The most skilled navigators of Vector have learned to move not just through space but through states of being, ''riding through the red'' to excited gatherings or ''shifting through the blue'' to reach calm spaces.

Social insects use stigmergy to form new pathways that represent their collective goals. Humans wear desire lines through parks [31]. In metaverse worlds, this generalizes to a world that gradually facilitates what its citizens want to do by reconfiguring paths and places to match their manifest intentions.

Anchor. "Points of digital permanence"

In Anchor, virtual locations attach to permanent identifiers. Some coordinates map to physical places — the corner of 42nd and Broadway appears the same in both realities. Other coordinates, like well-known DOIs, point to purely virtual landmarks that never move. The system binds digital to physical, ephemeral to permanent. These fixed points structure the metaverse. The locals of Anchor navigate between them confidently, knowing that a location reference will work tomorrow or next year.

Physical cities change [1,2,20], but rely on landmarks that persist [21]. The metaverse is digital, and therefore malleable. Everything can change, but it will help orientation and continuity to create fixed points that last for many generations, the equivalent of stone monuments that become the rally points for excursions in physical cities.

Drift. "Spaces that flow around the user"

In Drift, space flows around self. Libraries slide toward researchers. Studios spiral around artists. Concert halls drift to musicians. No one walks; they let places come to them. The locals perfect their stillness. A historian invokes Rome, and ruins gather. A scientist considers quantum experiments, and laboratories converge. When minds align, spaces fold together: markets compress into a trading floor, galleries collapse into a studio, libraries transform into a writers’ room. Navigation in Drift requires a fundamental shift in perspective. Instead of asking ''How do I get there?'', locals learn to ask, ''How do I invite the destination to come to me?'' The most skilled practitioners can hold multiple spaces in close orbit, and shuttle between them. They call these arrangements confluences - places drawn together through collective will.

Fiction uses passageways and portals to bring faraway spaces closer. In virtual worlds, these can seem real. Moreover, spaces that are functionally similar, as measured by embeddings, can adjust their spatial positions.

IV. Connection

Mirror. "Where multiple bodies are embodied"

In Mirror, attention splits. A teacher fragments into twenty presences, which the natives call dittos, avatars capable of maintaining a conversation, to help twenty students. The teacher roams between them, inhabiting the avatars. A designer becomes three: coder, critic, mediator. The locals build integration rooms where their divided selves meet. Some let these selves argue freely. Others enforce turn-taking like a corporate meeting, and function like facilitators whose job it is make sure everything learned is shared, in preparation for the next foray. When mirrored individuals meet, their fragments form constellations. Primary selves huddle in corners while their other selves orbit: creatives spark ideas, analysts dissect details, networkers weave connections. Some treat these like dinner parties, encouraging repartee. Others conduct them like orchestras.

VRChat users enjoy looking in mirrors together, perhaps because it is so other-worldly to see one’s own avatar arrayed with other avatars [10]. The idea of splitting attention has been discussed in speculative fiction: David Brin elaborates on the idea in a novel called Kiln People. Dittos, in the form of clay golems are sent out to do tasks, and then their memories are integrated [3]. Mark Zuckerberg envisions a future in which social influencers use AI-driven avatars to expand their reach: these avatars would interact with fans [9]. From a social influencer’s perspective, or a teacher’s perspective, this multiplication can provide more touch points with either fans or students. But it is unclear if fans or students enjoy increased interactivity, or instead find it annoying and inauthentic.

Bridge. "Where spaces intersect"

In Bridge, spaces transform. A meeting appears as a boardroom to suits, 8-bit tiles to gamers, vectors to engineers. Each viewer sees what they understand best, but all share the same space. The locals specialize in building tools that encode and decode these realities. They build transformation matrices: corporate speech to game quests, market values to social tokens, institutional roles to community reputation. Their work happens in the edges where encodings blur and new mappings emerge. They understand metaphor, and they understand embeddings — they call it machine conversation. Some say the deepest truth of Bridge can be had by contemplating its workbench - each version of a space can contain all the others.

In the physical world, when we meet we assume we are all seeing the same physical space. The only difference, we think, is our spatial perspective. But augmented and virtual worlds allow for us to share a conversation while seeing it entirely differently. The space one sees might be different from the space another sees. This undercuts our assumptions about a shared reality. On the other hand, it more fairly represents what happens in a conversation: we often understand the world differently from each other. The advantage of this scheme is that we may be able feel more comfortable or creative in particular virtual spaces, and we can ourselves choose those spaces.

Nest. "Where digital intimacy grows"

In Nest, people gather just to be with each other. Some sit in comfortable silence. Others sleep in their headsets, comforted by the quiet presence of others: they inhabit sleeping worlds. The cave-like enclosures learn their inhabitants’ patterns. Regular companions find their familiar nooks waiting. Friends sink into arrangements perfected over months. Even new arrivals feel the space adjust, offering niches for solitude or closeness as needed. The locals speak of different states of presence: the light doze of casual companionship, the deep rest of trusted friends, the gentle awareness of shared solitude. Here, protection and peace come from simply being together.

People are sleeping together in virtual reality. To do so is not physically easy: currently headsets are not designed to allow for the normal tossing and turning of sleep. Yet those who practice it find it comforting [23, 36]. Those who practice this relate how virtual cuddling leads to phantom touch responses. Practitioners will plan out sleeping.

Beckoning. "Where strangers lead you to revelation"

In Beckoning, convincing is the game. Groups of guides, already believers in the destination, surround newcomers, coaxing them to visit other worlds. They speak with with practiced charm, their invitations blend performance and persuasion. They promise adventure and community. They extoll the benefits of world hopping. Newcomers learn to play along. The hesitation is half-real. Each invitation becomes a doorway: to a dance party, a meditation space, a pocket universe. The threat of being surrounded is allayed because escape is just a button press away. Most who are convinced eventually become convincers, learning their own techniques of enticement. These Pied Pipers serve a purpose: they weave connections that connect the worlds.

One attraction of metaverse worlds is that they help users to meet new friends [28]. Beckoning serves two purposes: new worlds want more visitors, and users want to discover new worlds. It is also part of the different sociality of VR: some locations are public, and some are private. Even public worlds will have multiple instantiations, and some of these will be private. So discovering new worlds, and finding new friends, is challenging in a way that is different from in physical worlds.

Abduction. "Where consent precedes forgetting"

In Abduction, you know what you signed up for but not when it happens. The moment still startles: your screen freezes, or darkness descends, or you notice glitches. You are transported in the metaverse equivalent of the trunk of a car. The interrogators are stern but you feel like you know them. Their questions seem random until patterns emerge. Your safeword stands ready, but you don’t need to use it; you are being initiated, and you are having fun. Later, you are a player in someone else’s initiation.

Many aspects of virtual reality come from video games, and so plots like this emerge. They are not for everyone, but they are similar in appeal to participatory theater like Sleep No More [11]. They are on the edgier side of extended reality. Users are asked to consent to participate in a plot that involves non-consent. Consent in VR, however, is problematic [27, 33]. The designers of such experiences have a responsibility to guard against dark and harmful behavior [19, 35].

Archipelago. "Where social velocity reigns"

This land is made up of many fast moving islands. You drop into a spawn point on an island to find your people. You can see across the entire island, and are surrounded by spatial audio that lets you vector towards conversations that interest you. You and your new friends assemble into a crew. When it gets to big, your island splits in two, and begins growing again, automatically creating portals back to the other side of the split. Conversely, sparsely populated islands merge, and now have more portals. Some locals build and run ferry islands, which serve as transportation hubs to related islands: ferries have various speeds, accommodating those who want instant portals and those who would like to enjoy the transition. Inhabitants call these portal boats. You enjoy your local island and your tours of neighboring islands. You are surprised to learn there are now thousands of islands with millions of users, and realize you are part of a growing hypergraph.

VRChat and Roblox work because they accelerate social velocity: the experiences are small and easy to understand, and they are connected together through portal systems. Also important is the ability of to create new instances. Ideally, worlds should split around interest boundaries. A system of splitting and merging islands could support high social velocity. It is the apotheosis of exponential social network growth. As interest groups grow, it increasing the probability of friends joining. The splitting creates another form of acceleration, by parallelizing the growth in modules that make it easier to build sustaining friendships.

V. Memory

Archive. "Where experiences persist after they happened"

Archive teaches memory as the monks once did. Its halls are arranged like their memory palaces, but here the spaces build themselves. Walk down a corridor and branches appear, each turn reflecting your thought patterns. Some users move chronologically, others follow conceptual chains, letting ideas connect across time. The locals call themselves combinators. They gather loose fragments—conversations, images, experiences—and arrange them until new patterns emerge. A student preparing for debate might walk through fifty versions of the same argument. A designer might overlay a century of chairs, watching forms evolve. In the deepest chambers, Archive assembles possibilities from its collections: spaces part memory, part prediction. Here the combinators gather, arguing over what they’ve found, sharing methods, mapping the meta levels of building.

Classical and Medieval literature on mnemonic systems have a VR quality [18], and images of memory palaces have worked their way into modern entertainment. The most interesting commentaries of mnemonic systems detail how monks imagine cloisters that can be extended at will. They place images in different rooms, and use movement through rooms to not only remember but to invent [6].

Ghost. "What remains when users leave"

People visit Ghost for its stillness. Here, a moment stretches forever: a design studio where stylus strokes stop mid-curve, the client meeting that never reconvened. Some come seeking old friends in abandoned social spaces, finding comfort in traces: avatar settings unchanged, playlists still curated, coffee shops still arranged for meetings long missed. Others are scholars, piecing together the evolution of virtual worlds through abandoned protocols and expired links. The deepest layers hold the first experiments in presence: crude avatars and simple rooms dating to when we first tried to live in code. In Ghost, each abandoned project and unfinished conversation is preserved, a source of eerie inspiration.

Compared to the physical environment, the metaverse changes very rapidly. One feature of modern cities is that, even as they evolve, some places remain as we remember them. We will have to make a special effort to create such places in metaverse worlds [5]. A reason to do is that much of the metaverse is about social interaction, and familiarity can be helpful. We need some fixed points to counterpoint rapid change.

Seed. "Where new realities germinate"

In Seed, spaces evolve through use. A prototype begins with basic parameters - dimensions, lighting, acoustics. But its final form emerges from how people inhabit it. A meeting room sprouts breakout spaces where conversations naturally split. A museum develops new wings following viewers’ browsing patterns. The developers here act more like gardeners than architects. They create conditions that support growth: flexible boundaries, adaptable lighting, sound that carries or dampens as needed. They study which configurations encourage interaction and which lead to isolation. The branch they decide to focus on they call the future bloom. When a temporary structure draws returning visitors, when conversations extend past their scheduled end, when unplanned gatherings become regular events - these signal a space to cultivate. Behavior shapes the architecture.

Theories of architecture have stressed that much of our environment grows as if it is organic [2,21]. Structures change, and so we need to understand they will always be unfinished [20]. This same theory of cultivation has been applied to machine learning systems [22]. Metaverse worlds are similar to physical urban environments, and they are also similar to machine learning systems. They also can be poetic in the same way cities can [4].

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