Running Things (Into the Ground)

Joe Sharkey

Sunday April 9 2000

    The new computer-simulation game Virtual U. opens with a deceptively
pleasant scene. Music that sounds like a leitmotif from a Ken Burns
documentary swells. A white dove wafts from the clouds, gliding over a
sprawling campus, descending past the stadium and the dorms and the
classrooms, zooming in on the administration building.
    Finally the dove alights on the sill of a window that opens into the
college president's cozy office. For the purposes of this game, I am that
college president. Fade to black....
    Virtual U., which was released commercially last month
(www.virtual-u.org), challenges players to test -- and for those with
actual ability, to hone -- their management skills by plowing through 10
situations that mimic the real-life world of a university president.
    This means you can do such presidential things as hire and fire
teachers, fiddle with pay scales, raise or lower tuition, adjust
departmental spending, cram more students into dorms, increase or reduce
financial aid, modify recruitment formulas and even dig into that sacred
endowment.
    Of course, you play with these complex managerial and financial models
at your own virtual career risk. As president, you develop an appreciation
of the geometric complications involved in strategies like robbing Peter to
pay Paul, or changing Peter's class size to make Paul happier. You know
this mostly because when your "school year" is over, the board of trustees,
which incidentally sets your salary, issues an evaluation.
    Virtual U., which sells for about $129, was developed with a $1 million
grant from the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation. Its mastermind was William F.
Massy, a former Stanford University administrator and now president of a
higher education consulting company. Using management and academic data
from 1,200 universities and organizations like the College Board, the game
was created both as a training tool and as a diversion along the lines of
the computer game SimCity, which allows players to build, manage and
mismanage virtual cities and entertainment empires.
    The scenario that I choose to play is "Balance the Budget."
    Things start off fine. The first day, I get a cordial memo from the
trustees, who write that they are pleased to have as "distinguished a
person as yourself" at the helm. No time to savor that, though, as I learn
quickly that a university president's workday consists of one irritating
problem after another, all marked with annoying memos.
    I have barely found out where the men's room is and already things are
spinning out of control. In a corner of the screen, pages flip off a tiny
calendar in the manner of a 1930's movie showing the rapid passage of time.
    The board is dictatorial. I've only started evaluating the faculty when
an urgent memo arrives. It seems I am under immediate orders to "cut the
budget while minimizing adverse affects on academic quality." What is more,
the board writes, churlishly, I think: "You will be judged on the speed
with which you achieve a balanced budget."
    Feverishly, I make adjustments in various departments, paring away at
the budget while trying not to damage academic standards. The days fly by
as Baroque music plays maniacally.
    Another urgent memo from the trustees: Fund-raising is down! Worse,
"The budget that you project alarms the board." The deficit is $3.8
million; state appropriations have been cut and "hopes of more income
anytime soon are vain." The board adds, churlishly, I think: "At our recent
meeting you disappointed the board by advancing no remedy to cope with the
new circumstances promptly."
    I'm doing my best, you miserable vultures! I plunge back into the
budgets, ruthlessly looking for fat. I click on the athletic department.
Hey, what's this? The men's football team lost seven games and won only
four? A 50 percent budget cut for those chumps! And whoa, the wom- en's
basketball team was 10 and 22 for the season? Fifty percent less for you,
too, ha-ha! I have a college to run here, sports fans.
    After examining data that show the university's prestige ranking is
low, I decide to raise faculty salaries. Amazingly, the board backs me up,
noting that the pay scale is 10 percent below market rate. Feeling like a
great educator, I award the poor devils a 30 percent raise over three
years.
    Meanwhile, I shake down alumni.
    I point and click, read and react, but things deteriorate. All the
alumni gifts in the world will not save me. A pall descends over the
president's office.
    At the end of the year, the two-faced board weighs in with my
evaluation, churlishly as usual: "Dear President Sharkey: The compensation
committee of the board has completed your performance evaluation for year
one-two. The committee believes your performance has been weak. This will
be reflected in your salary for next year."
    O.K., I'm willing to admit that "educational quality" may need tweaking
at this cow college. But the board also faults me for weak performance in
faculty morale. I, who gave those tenured ingrates a 30 percent pay hike! I
immediately suspect the football coach of conspiring against me at faculty
meetings.
    That's it, I am outta here. I click the button that allows me to quit.
It opens up a screen showing a nice rocking chair in a room that looks all
warm and inviting. These words appear above: "Congratulations on occasion
of your retirement!" I look around some more but am unable to find a button
that says "Pension."

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