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Vietnam is a Communist nation. It is one of the few remaining Communist states, and, of course, its communism is nothing like the communism that gave birth to the Cold War. But nonetheless, it is a sovereign nation that still links its identity to Marx and Lenin (through Chairman Ho).

The United States is not a Communist nation. Defeated by Vietnam, but a victor in the Cold War, we are a nation that in large part defines itself in opposition to the ideology of Marx and Lenin. Vietnam sets the state in service of the withering of the state as its ideal; the United States sets the withered state in the service of liberty as its ideal. Control is the model of communism; freedom is the model of the United States.

Or so we are to think.

I confess a certain fascination with Communist states. In the early 1980s I wandered through every European Communist state that would let me in. In the early 1990s, I worked with constitutionalists in Georgia as they drafted their constitution. And in 1996, I spent much of the summer wandering through Vietnam. Alone and e-mail-free, I tried to understand this place that in my childhood fell victim to my nation ’s exported struggle with the Cold War.

Though I’ve been to many different places around the world, I’ve never been to a place more spectacular. One is always overwhelmed by forgiveness, and an American can ’t help being overwhelmed by this nation’s warmth and welcome. Perhaps had we “won” the war forgiveness would not be so forthcoming. But it apparently comes easily to those who did win.

I wasn’t there, however, to understand forgiveness. I wanted to learn something about how the place ran. I wanted to understand how this state exercises control over its citizens; how it continues to regulate; how it qualifies as one of the last remaining Communist states. So I spent time talking to lawyers, businessmen, and managers of the emerging Net in Vietnam ( “NetNam”). Very quickly, a surprising picture emerged.

Though the ideology of a Communist state admits very little limitation on the power of the state; though the Vietnamese state sets as its ideal a common good rather than the good of individuals or individual liberty; though on paper there is no “liberty” in Vietnam in the sense that we in the West like to imagine it—though all this is true, I could not escape the feeling that people in Vietnam, in their day-to-day existence, are far less “regulated” than people in the United States. Not all people, of course: Political opponents undoubtedly feel the power of the state quite forcefully. But I sensed that ordinary people in their ordinary lives, many running small shops, had no conception of the control that government can exercise; no experience of having their wages reported to a central bureaucracy once a quarter; no understanding of what it is like to live under the (relative) efficiency of the regulation we have here. Life there is remarkably free from governmental control. It was hard to imagine how it would have been different had Nixon won the war. Pornography was banned and hippies were harassed, but in the main, people and business got on with very little direct or effective regulation by government.

This fact (if you’ll allow random observations of an untrained anthropologist to count as fact) is not hard to understand. The “law” on the books in Vietnam may or may not be a stricter or more extensive regulator than the “law” in the United States. But the architecture of life in Vietnam clearly makes any real regulation by the state impossible. There is no infrastructure of control —there is barely any infrastructure at all. Whatever the regulations of the state may be, there is no architecture that could make them effective. Even if there is more regulation there than here (and frankly I doubt that there is), Vietnam has an effective “freedom.”

This makes perfect sense. The power to regulate is a function of architecture as much as of ideology; architectures enable regulation as well as constrain it. To understand the power a government might have, we must understand the architectures within which it governs.

The preceding chapters have all been about this very point. We can have an idea of sovereign power —the power of the sovereign to regulate or control behavior—but the significance of that power gets realized in a particular context. The state’s power may be “absolute,” but if the architecture does not support regulation, the state’s effective power is quite slight. On the other hand, the state’s power may be limited, but if the architectures of control are very efficient, this limited power can be extraordinarily extensive. To understand a state ’s power to regulate we must ask: How well does its infrastructure support regulation?

This is the question we should ask about cyberspace, as a first step to understanding sovereignty there. What power do sovereigns have to regulate life in cyberspace? How do the modalities of regulation help or limit that power?

We’ll consider this question in three parts, two of which are the subject of this chapter. First, what is the nature of the sovereignty in cyberspace? How is it different from the sovereignty of France? Second, what limits the sovereignty of cyberspace? And third, the subject the next section, how will sovereigns interact in the regulation of cyberspace, not so much to control behavior there as to control the effects of that behavior here? How will they compete?

The Sovereign of the Space: Rules

When you enter the world of MMOG Second Life as a new character, the rules of Second Life are explained to you. Some of these rules are the techniques you will need to get around in Second Life —how to move, or how to fly. Some of the rules are normative commands that tell you what you can and can ’t do.

It is impossible when confronting this introduction not to notice that these constraints are constructed. God didn ’t make Second Life. No one is confused about whether he or she did. Nor is it likely that one entering this space wouldn ’t notice that one important dimension to that construction is construction through code. That you can fly is a choice of the coders. Where you can fly is a choice of the coders. That when you bump into someone, a warning box is displaced is a choice of the coders. That you can turn off IM conversations from people you don ’t want to hear from is a choice of the coders. No one mistakes that there are choices made here. Everyone recognizes that a critical part of the cyberspace world is made through code. As Second Life ’s CEO, Philip Rosedale, put it to me: “What is God in a virtual world? Your only God is the code.”1

Now, as I’ve said from the start, we should distinguish between richly controlling spaces and thinly controlling spaces. Spaces like Second Life richly control the life of people playing there. Indeed, the whole objective of playing there is create the impression that one is there. These, again, are the sorts of places I call cyberspace.

Cyberspace is very different from life on a bill-paying website, or on a site holding your e-mail. Code controls these, too. But the control, or sovereignty, of those sites is distinct from the control of Second Life. In Second Life, or in what I’ve defined to be cyberspace generally, the control is ubiquitous; on a bill-paying website, or on what I ’ve called the Internet, the control is passing, transitory.

Interestingly, there is an important dynamic shift that we’ve already identified, more in thinly controlling spaces than thick. This is the preference for code controls where code controls are possible.

Think again about the bill-paying website. It is of course against the law to access someone ’s bank account and transfer funds from that account without the authorization of the account owner. But no bank would ever simply rely upon the law to enforce that rule. Every bank adds a complex set of code to authenticate who you are when you enter a bill-paying website. Where a policy objective can be coded, then the only limit on that coding is the marginal cost of code versus the marginal benefit of the added control.

But in a thickly controlling environment such as Second Life, there’s a limit to the use of code to guide social behavior. Sometimes, in other words, better code can weaken community. As Second Life ’s Rosedale put it,

In some ways the difficulty of Second Life is a benefit because you have to be taught. And that Act of being taught is such a huge win for both the teacher and the student. . . . [We] have this sort of mentoring going on that is such a psychologically appealing relationship —one which the real world doesn’t give us very much.2

A second way in which better code can weaken community is even more important. As Second Life is, it doesn ’t enable people easily to segregate. As Rosedale described,

In Second Life, there’s basically not any zoning. What this means is that neighbor disputes are frequent. But from the standpoint of learning, this is actually a real positive. I ’ve gotten e-mail from people that says, “Well, I didn’t get along with my neighbors, and as a result, I learned very rapidly a great deal about how to resolve disputes. How to be a good neighbor. ” . . . [I]n the real world . . . there so much law . . . that you don’t actually have to talk to your neighbors. [Instead] there’s simply a law that says you can or can’t do [something.] . . . There’s an opportunity to communicate and interact [in the virtual world] in a way that the real world offers only under very rare circumstances. 3

The code thus doesn’t simply make all problems go away. It doesn’t remove the need for neighbors to work stuff out. And in this way, the code helps build community. The practice of interaction builds bonds that would not be built if the code produced the same results, automatically. Optimal design leaves certain problems to the players to work out —not because the solution couldn’t be coded, but also because coding a solution would have collateral costs.

Nonetheless, it is still the sovereign in these virtual spaces that chooses one modality over another. The trade-off is complicated. Perfect efficiency of results is not always perfectly efficient. But still the choice of means remains.

The Sovereign of the Space: Choosing Rules

But how is that choice made? Or more directly, what about democracy? In real space, the rule is that sovereigns are legitimate only if democratic. We barely tolerate (most) nondemocratic regimes. The general norm for real space life is that ultimately, the people rule.

But the single most interesting nondevelopment in cyberspace is that, again, as Castronova puts it, “one does not find much democracy at all in synthetic worlds.”4 The one real exception is a world called “A Tale in the Desert.”5 Democracy has not broken out across cyberspace, or on the Internet. Instead, democracy is a rare exception to a fairly strong rule —that the “owner” of the space is the sovereign. And in Castronova’s view, the owner is not ordinarily a very good sovereign:

In sum, none of the worlds, to my knowledge, has ever evolved institutions of good government. Anarchy reigns in all worlds. 6

This isn’t to say that aggregated views don’t matter in cyberspace. Indeed, they are crucial to central aspects of the Internet as it is just now. A kind of voting —as manifested through links—guides search engines. Technorati, as I’ve already described, relies upon the same to rank blogs. And important sites, such as Slashdot, routinely use rankings or votes of editors to determine which comments will rise to the top.

These are all democracy-like. But they are not democracy. Democracy is the practice of the people choosing the rules that will govern a particular place. And with the exception of Wikipedia, and “A Tale in the Desert,” there are very few major Internet or cyberspace institutions that run by the rule of the people.

So what explains this democracy gap? And should we expect it to change?

Our history of self-government has a particular form, with two importantly contingent features. Before our founding, life was geographically based —a nation was a society located in a physical space, with a single sovereign allegiance. As we ’ll consider more extensively in the chapter that follows, the conceptual revolution of the American Republic was that citizens could have two sovereigns —more precisely, that they (as the ultimate sovereign) could vest their sovereign power in two different delegates. Their state government was one delegate, the federal government was another; individuals living in a single geographic location could thus be citizens of both governments. That was the idea of the founding document, and the Fourteenth Amendment made it explicit: “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. ”

Citizenship in this sense did not always mean a right to contribute to the self-government of whatever community you were a citizen of. 7 Even today there are citizens that have no right to vote—e.g., children. But for those recognized as members of civil and political society, citizenship is an entitlement: It is a right to participate in the governing of the political community of which they are members. As a citizen of the United States, I have the right to vote in U.S. elections; as a citizen of California, I have the right to vote in California elections. I have both rights at the same time.

At this level, the link between entitlement and geography makes sense. But as mobility has increased, the at-one-time obvious link between geography and citizenship has become less and less obvious. I live in San Francisco, but I work in Palo Alto. The rules give me full participation rights in San Francisco but none in Palo Alto. Why does this make sense?

Political theorists have noted this problem for some time.8 Scholars such as Richard Ford and Lani Guinier have developed powerful alternative conceptions of self-government that would enable a kind of self-government not tied directly to geography. With one such alternative, voters choose (within limits) the community where their votes count. Thus if I felt participating in the future of Palo Alto was more important than participating in the future of San Francisco, I would have the right to vote in Palo Alto though I lived in San Francisco.

These complications are magnified when we consider the link between geography and cyberspace. Even if I should have the right to vote in the community where I work, should I have the right to vote in the community where I play? Why would real-space citizens need to have any control over cyber-places or their architectures? You might spend most of your life in a mall, but no one would say you have a right to control the mall ’s architecture. Or you might like to visit Disney World every weekend, but it would be odd to claim that you therefore have a right to regulate Disney World. Why isn ’t cyberspace more like a mall or a theme park than like the district in which you live and vote?

Your relationship to a mall, or to Disney World, is the relationship of consumer to merchant. If you don ’t like two-all-beef-patties-special-sauce-lettuce-cheese-pickles-onions-on-a-sesa-me-s eed-bun, then you can go to Burger King; McDonald ’s has no duty to let you vote on how it makes its hamburgers. If you don’t like the local mall, you can go to another. The power you have over these institutions is your ability to exit. They compete for your attention, your custom, and your loyalty; if they compete well, you will give them your custom; if they don ’t, you will go somewhere else. That competition is crucial in disciplining these institutions. What makes them work well is this competition among these potential sources for your custom.

This merchant-sovereign part of our life is important. It is where we spend most of our time, and most people are more satisfied with this part of their lives than they are with the part within which they get to vote. In this sense, all these places are sovereigns; they all impose rules on us. But our recourse with respect to merchant-sovereigns is simply to take our business elsewhere.

But the merchant-sovereign part of our life is not exclusive. There are also citizen-sovereign parts of our life. There are no states that get to say to their citizens: “You have no right to vote here; if you don’t like it, leave.” Our role in relation to our governments is that of a stakeholder with a voice. We have a right —if the government is to be called democratic—to participate in its structuring.

And this is true not just with governments. It would be an odd university that gave its faculty no right to vote on issues central to the university (though it is an odd corporation that gives its employees a right to vote on issues related to employment). It would be an odd social club that did not give members some control over its functions —though again, there are such clubs, just as there are nondemocratic governments. Even the church allows its members to determine a great deal of how members are governed. In these institutions, we are members, not consumers —or, not just consumers. These institutions give consumers control over the rules that will govern them. In this sense, these institutions are citizen-sovereignties.

As a descriptive matter, then, cyberspace is not yet dominated (or even broadly populated) by citizen-sovereignties. The sovereignties we see so far are all merchant-sovereignties. And this is even more clearly true with the Internet. To the extent sites are sovereign, they are merchant-sovereigns. Our relationship to them is the same as our relationship to McDonald ’s.

Some theorists have tried to collapse these two different models into one. Some have tried to carry the member model into every sphere of social life —the workplace, the mall, the local pub.9 Others have tried to carry the consumer model into every sphere of social life—followers of Charles Tiebout, for example, have tried to explain competition among governments along the lines of the choices we make among toothpastes. 10 But even if we cannot articulate perfectly the justifications for treating these choices differently, it would be a mistake to collapse these different spheres into one. It would be hell to have to vote on the design of toothpaste, and tyranny if our only recourse against a government we didn ’t like was to move to a different land.

But then is it a problem that cyberspace is comprised of just merchant-sovereignties? The first defense for merchant-sovereignties is developed in the writings of David Post and his sometime coauthor David Johnson. 11   Post’s article “Anarchy, State, and the Internet” best sets the stage. Communities in cyberspace, Post argues, are governed by “rule-sets.” We can understand these rule-sets to be the requirements, whether embedded in the architecture or promulgated in a set of rules, that constrain behavior in a particular place. The world of cyberspace, he argues, is comprised by these rule-sets. Individuals will choose to enter one rule-set or another. As rule-sets compete for our attention, the world of cyberspace will come to be defined by this competition of merchant-sovereigns for customers.

Post’s account again is descriptively accurate. It is also, Post argues, normatively recommended. Sovereigns should be understand as a firm ’s market power is understood in antitrust law. By “market power” antitrust lawyers and economists mean a firm’s ability to raise prices profitably. In a perfectly competitive market, a firm with no market power is the one that cannot raise its prices because it would lose so much in sales as to make the increase not worth it. 12 The firm that does have market power can raise prices and see its profits increase. The firm with market power also has the ability to force consumers to accept a price for a good that is higher than the price in a competitive market.

We might imagine an analogous constraint operating on government. Sovereigns, like firms, can get away with only so much. As they become more repressive, or as they regulate more harshly, other sovereigns, or other rule-sets, become competitors. At some point it is easier for citizens to leave than to put up with the burdens of regulation, 13 or easier to evade the law than to comply with it.

Because such moves are costly in real space, sovereigns, at least in the short run, can get away with a lot. But in cyberspace, moving is not so hard. If you do not like the rule-set of your MMOGs, you can change games. If you do not like the amount of advertising on one Internet portal, then in two seconds you can change your default portal. Life in cyberspace is about joining without ever leaving your home. If the group you join does not treat you as you want to be treated, you can leave. Because competitive pressure is greater in cyberspace, governments and other propagators of rule-sets must behave like firms in a competitive market.

This is an important and interesting conception of governance. Important because it describes governance in cyberspace; interesting because it perhaps shows the purpose and limits of citizen-sovereignty in real space. It argues for a world of volunteers, one where rules are not imposed but selected. It is a world that minimizes the unconcented-to-power of any particular government, by making governments competitors for citizens. It is government like McDonald ’s or Coca-Cola—eager to please, fearful of revolt.

There are reasons, however, to be skeptical about this view. First, consider the claim that exit costs are lower in cyberspace than in real space. When you switch to a different ISP or Internet portal, you no doubt confront a different set of “rules,” and these rules no doubt compete for your attention. This is just like going from one restaurant or shopping mall to another. There are competing rule-sets; they are among several factors you consider in choosing an ISP; and to the extent that there is easy movement among these rule-sets, this movement is undoubtedly a competition among them. Some ISPs, of course, try to make this movement difficult. If you ’ve been a member of AOL for ten years, and you decide you want to switch, AOL doesn ’t make that change easy by providing, for example, a simple ability to forward your e-mail. But as people recognize this restriction imposed by AOL, they ’ll choose other ISPs. If the competition is real, the rule-set will compete.

Communities, however, are different. Consider the “competition” among, say, MMOGs. You join an MMOG and spend months building a character in that community. You also collect assets —buildings you’ve built, or weapons you’ve acquired. Both resources are a kind of capital. The set of relationships you’ve developed are the social capital; all the stuff you have is the physical capital.

If you then become dissatisfied with life in your chosen MMOGs, you can leave. But leaving is costly. You can ’t transfer the social capital you’ve built, and, depending upon the game, you may not be able to transfer the physical capital either. Like choosing to join a different frequent flyer program, the choice to join a different MMOG is a decision to waste certain assets. And that fact will weaken the competition among these rule-sets.

I don’t mean to overstate the point. Indeed, as markets have developed for selling assets within MMOGs, and the nature of the games has become standardized, some argue that it is becoming much easier to move from one game to another. In real space you also can ’t easily transfer social capital from one community to another. Friends are not fungible, even if they can give you connections at your new home. But physical assets in real space are transferable. I can sell what I don ’t want and move what I do. Always. In MMOGs, not always.

Paradoxically, then, we might say that it may be harder to change communities in cyberspace than it is in real space. It is harder because you must give up everything in a move from one cyber-community to another, whereas in real space you can bring much of it with you. 14 Communities in cyberspace may in the short run have more power over their citizens (regarding social capital) than real-space communities do.

This means that the picture of competing rule-sets in cyberspace is more complex than Post suggests. The pressure on competition is potentially greater in turn. That might motivate a desire in cyberspace communities to shift toward citizen-sovereignty, but, again, there ’s not much evidence of that shift yet.

There is a second, more fundamental skepticism. Even if we could construct cyberspace on the model of the market —so that we relate to spaces in cyberspace the way we relate to toothpaste in real space —there are strong reasons not to. As life moves online, and more and more citizens from states X, Y, and Z come to interact in cyberspaces A, B, and C, these cyberspaces may well need to develop the kind of responsibility and attention that develops (ideally) within a democracy. Or, put differently, if cyberspace wants to be considered its own legitimate sovereign, and thus deserving of some measure of independence and respect, it must become more clearly a citizen-sovereignty.

This same dynamic happens in real space. There are many institutions that are not “sovereign” in the sense that they control how people live, but are “sovereign” in the sense that within the institution, they control how people behave. Universities, social clubs, churches, and corporations are the obvious examples of institutions that gain a kind of autonomy from ordinary government. This autonomy can be thick or thin. And my suggestion is that it gets thicker the more the institution reflects values of citizen-sovereignty.

This kind of sovereignty is expressed in the law through doctrines of immunity. A corporation has certain immunities, but that depends upon it fitting a particular corporate form. Churches have a certain immunity, but it is increasingly challenged as its governance becomes more alien.

Communities in cyberspace will earn a similar immunity more quickly if they reflect citizen-sovereign values rather than merchant-sovereign values. The more responsible the communities become, the more likely real-space governments will defer to their norms through doctrines like immunity.

This maturation—if it is that—is obviously a long way down the road. It depends upon an increasing self-recognition by members of these cyberspace communities that they are, in a sense, separate, or complementary communities. It depends upon an increasing recognition among noncommunity members that there ’s something distinctive about these communities. Some are optimistic that this will happen. As Dan Hunter and Greg Lastowka write:

Courts will need to recognize that virtual worlds are jurisdictions separate from our own, with their own distinctive community norms, laws, and rights. While cyborg inhabitants will demand that these rights be recognized by real-world courts and virtual-world wizards, they will need to arrive at these rights themselves within the context of the virtual worlds. 15

We’ve seen something similar to this progression in our own history. There was a time when the United States was really “these united States,” a time when the dominant political reality was local and there were real differences of culture and values between New York and Virginia. Despite these differences, in 1789 these states united to establish a relatively thin national government. This government was to be minimal and limited; it had a number of narrow, strictly articulated purposes, beyond which it was not to go.

These limits made sense in the limited community that the United States was. At the time there was very little that the states shared as a nation. They shared a history of defeating the strongest army in the world and a purpose of growing across an almost endless continent, 16 but they did not share a social or political life. Life was local, exchange was relatively rare, and in such a world limited national government made sense.

Nevertheless, there were national questions to be articulated and resolved. Slavery, for example, was a mark on our country as a whole, even though the practice was limited to a few states. There had been arguments at the founding about whether slavery should be left to local regulation. But the Constitution was founded on a compromise about that question. Congress was not permitted to address the question of the “importation” of slaves until 1808.17 After that, it could, and people, increasingly, said that it should. Slavery continued, however, to be a stain on the moral standing of our nation. Congress could eliminate it in the territories at least, and some argued that it should do so in the southern states as well.

Opponents to this call for Congress to cleanse our nation of slavery were of two sorts. One type supported the institution of slavery and believed it was central to southern life. They are not my focus here. My focus is a second type —those who, with perfect integrity and candor, argued that slavery was a local issue, not a national issue; that the framers had understood it not to be a national issue; and that the national government should let it alone.

However true that claim might have been in 1791 or 1828, it became less plausible over time. As the nation became socially and economically more integrated, the plausibility of saying “I am a Virginian first” declined, and the significance of being a citizen of the nation as a whole increased. 18

This change came about not through some political decision but as a result of a changing economic and social reality. Our sense of being members of a national community increased until, at a certain stage, it became impossible to deny our national citizenship. A war produced that recognition. The Fourteenth Amendment wrote it into the Constitution; economic and social intercourse made it completely real. And as this change took hold, the claim that issues like slavery were local became absurd.

The very same process is happening to us now, internationally, and cyberspace is making an important contribution. It has been slowly gaining momentum, of course, since the end of World War II, but the Internet has wildly accelerated the pace. Ordinary citizens are connected internationally and can make international transactions as never before. The presence of a community that is beyond any individual state is increasingly undeniable.

As this international community develops in cyberspace, its citizens will find it increasingly difficult to stand neutral in this international space. Just as a principled sort of citizen in 1791 might have said that slavery in Virginia was irrelevant to a citizen in Maine, so in 1991 the control of speech in Singapore may have been irrelevant to a citizen of the United States. But just as the claim about slavery ’s local relevance became implausible in the course of the nineteenth century, the claim about speech on the Net will become equally implausible in the 21 st century. Cyberspace is an international community; there are constitutional questions for it to answer; and we cannot simply stand back from this international space and say that these questions are local issues.

At least, we could not say that once we effectively invaded this international space with the Internet of 1995. We put into the world an architecture that facilitated extraordinarily free speech and extraordinary privacy; that enabled secure communications through a protocol that permitted encryption; and that encouraged free communications through a protocol that resisted censorship. That was the speech architecture that the Net gave the world —that we gave the world.

Now we are changing that architecture. We are enabling commerce in a way we did not before; we are contemplating the regulation of encryption; we are facilitating identity and content control. We are remaking the values of the Net, and the question is: Can we commit ourselves to neutrality in this reconstruction of the architecture of the Net?

I don’t think that we can. Or should. Or will. We can no more stand neutral on the question of whether the Net should enable centralized control of speech than Americans could stand neutral on the question of slavery in 1861. We should understand that we are part of a worldwide political battle; that we have views about what rights should be guaranteed to all humans, regardless of their nationality; and that we should be ready to press these views in this new political space opened up by the Net.

I am not arguing for world government. Indeed, the impossibility of such an idea is the focus of much of the next chapter. My argument instead is that we must take responsibility for the politics we are building into this architecture, for this architecture is a sovereign governing the community that lives in that space. We must consider the politics of the architectures of the life there.

I have argued that we should understand the code in cyberspace to be its own sort of regulatory regime, and that this code can sometimes be in competition with the law ’s regulatory regime. For example, we saw how copyright law could be inconsistent with the regulatory regime of trusted systems. My argument is that we should understand these to be two regulatory regimes in competition with each other. We need a way to choose between them. We need a way to decide which should prevail.

As this system of regulation by code develops, it will contain its own norms, which it will express in its structures or in the rules it imposes. If the predictions of law and economics are correct, these norms will no doubt be efficient, and they may well be just. But to the extent that justice does not track efficiency, they will be efficient and unjust. The question will then be: How do we react to this gap?

There is an important pattern in this competition between code and law. Law, at least as it regulates international relations, is the product of extended negotiations. Countries must come to an agreement about how law will regulate and about any norms that they will impose on private ordering. As their work relates to cyberspace in particular, this agreement is quite significant. It will require the nations of the world to come to a common understanding about this space and to develop a common strategy for dealing with its regulation.

 Chapter Fourteen Notes

1. Audio Tape: Interview with Philip Rosedale 2 (1/13/06) (transcript on file with author).
2. Ibid., 4�6.
3. Ibid., 5.
4. Castronova, Synthetic Worlds, 207.
5. Ibid., 216.
6. Ibid., 213.
7. See Judith N. Shklar, American Citizenship: The Quest for Inclusion (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991), 25�62; James A. Gardner, "Liberty, Community, and the Constitutional Structure of Political Influence: A Reconsideration of the Right to Vote," University of Pennsylvania Law Review 145 (1997): 893; Quiet Revolution in the South, edited by Chandler Davidson and Bernard Grofman (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1994): 21�36.
8. See Lani Guinier, The Tyranny of the Majority: Fundamental Fairness in Representative Democracy (New York: Free Press, 1994); Richard Thompson Ford, "Beyond Borders: A Partial Response to Richard Briffault," Stanford Law Review 48 (1996): 1173; Richard Thompson Ford, "Geography and Sovereignty: Jurisdictional Formation and Racial Segregation," Stanford Law Review 49 (1997): 1365; Jerry Frug, "Decentering Decentralization," University of Chicago Law Review 60 (1993): 253; Jerry Frug, "The Geography of Community," Stanford Law Review 48 (1996): 1047.
9. See Michael Walzer_, Spheres of Justice: A Defense of Pluralism and Equality_ (New York: Basic Books, 1983).
10. See Charles M. Tiebout, "A Pure Theory of Local Expenditures," Journal of Political Economy 64 (1956): 416; see also Clayton P. Gillette, Local Government Law: Cases and Materials (Boston: Little, Brown, 1994), 382; Vicki Been, "`Exit' as a Constraint on Land Use Exactions: Rethinking the Unconstitutional Conditions Doctrine," Columbia Law Review 91 (1991): 473, 514�28.
11. See David G. Post, "Governing Cyberspace," Wayne Law Review 43 (1996): 155; David Post, "The New Electronic Federalism," American Lawyer (October 1996): 93; David G. Post, "The `Unsettled Paradox': The Internet, the State, and the Consent of the Governed," Indiana Journal of Global Legal Studies 5 (1998): 521, 539; David R. Johnson and Kevin A. Marks, "Mapping Electronic Data Communications onto Existing Legal Metaphors: Should We Let Our Conscience (and Our Contracts) Be Our Guide?," Villanova Law Review 38 (1993): 487; Johnson and Post, "Law and Borders"; David G. Post, "Anarchy, State, and the Internet: An Essay on Law-Making in Cyberspace," Journal of Online Law (1995): article 3, available at link #100.
• Link 100: http://www.wm.edu/law/publications/jol/articles/post.shtml [cached]
12. See Phillip E. Areeda et al., Antitrust Law, vol. 2A (Boston: Little, Brown, 1995), 85�87.
13. See Post, "Anarchy, State, and the Internet," 29�30.
14. In the time since Code v1_,_ this point has become much more questionable. The ability of people playing games to effectively move from one game to another has increased. Here again, real space and cyberspace are becoming more alike.
15. F. Gregory Lastowka and Dan Hunter, "The Laws of Virtual Worlds," California Law Review 92 (2004): 1, 73.
16. Or at least three of the four regions in the early United States shared this history; see Fischer, Albion's Seed, 827�28.
17. Article V of the Constitution states (obscurely no doubt) that "provided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the Year One thousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect the first and fourth Clauses in the Ninth Section of the first Article." These clauses state: "(1) The Migration or Importation of such Persons as any of the States now existing shall think proper to admit, shall not be prohibited by the Congress prior to the Year one thousand eight hundred and eight, but a Tax or duty may be imposed on such Importation, not exceeding ten Dollars for each Person"; and "(4) No Capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken."
18. See John F. Kennedy, Profiles in Courage (New York: Harper, 1956), ch. 3.

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