Moth — wired to arrive Mouse — wired to flee Magpie — wired to charge Stranger — wiring hidden Each sketch is all there is of her: eyes in front, wheels behind, one wire from each eye to a wheel. + means light speeds that wheel, − means light slows it. ☼ your lamps (up to five; new ones replace the oldest) — click, or focus the stage and use the arrow keys and Enter
What you just did
You watched the Moth grow calm, the Mouse panic, the Magpie turn greedy — and none of them has so much as a neuron. The difference between timid and bold here is which wire crosses to which wheel. This is Valentino Braitenberg’s old thought experiment (Vehicles, 1984): behaviour that reads as love, fear, and aggression, from machinery too simple to hold any of them.
In this garden there are only four ways to hang two wires: straight or crossed, with light that speeds the wheels or slows them. Two questions tell them apart — which way she turns, and whether light hurries her. The three residents wear three of them; the stranger may wear any. The one nobody here wears, crossed wires that slow in the light, Braitenberg named the explorer: she eases as she nears a lamp, turns aside, and drifts off as if looking for a better one. When you read her, you did it the only fair way, by watching what she does. The feeling was the word you brought.
The lesson cuts both ways, and the second edge matters more every year. Minds are cheap to see where there are none — and that should make us humble, not smug, about the reverse error: failing to see what may be stirring in systems a billion times more intricate than two wires. The honest position sits in the middle: measure the signals, assert nothing, dismiss nothing. Here those signals are called quasiqualia.
The book-length version of that humility is What If We Feel? More play on the Playground.