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[...]coyote time makes me think of teaching and learning. It makes me think of all the times we demand precision from students – both in terms of timing and performance. It makes me think of how it would feel for students to have grace windows and large error bars in acceptable performance. It makes me think of the many students who, when they try to run and jump, instead fall into a pit of spikes because they were just a little off.

Celeste is still a very challenging game, but by adding in coyote time (and many other forgiveness mechanics like it), the developers keep it from feeling frustrating and punishing. This is what I hope our courses strive for: stretching students and challenging them without arbitrarily punishing them for not being perfect.

This is a delicate balance to achieve. In moments of tension between challenge and forgiveness, I tend to prefer forgiveness. After all, tolerance for error is one of the key tenets of Universal Design. However, I think games can teach us a lot about how to design experiences that are challenging and yet still work to minimize the consequences of errors, mistakes, and imperfections.

In this post, I’ll explore a few other forgiveness-adjacent game mechanics similar to coyote time. I won’t be suggesting specific teaching practices. Rather, I’ll discuss what I think these mechanics illuminate about the experience of playing a challenging yet forgiving game. By looking outside the world of teaching and learning for inspiration, I hope that we can think creatively about how to create the best possible experience for students. While I may mention a few teaching practices that come to mind, I will mostly be leaving the connections to you, dear reader.

Let’s dive in.

Now independently run, the MnSeed Project continues to create a free, locally adapted native seed economy through collecting, saving and preserving seeds. The group are so passionate about this that all the seeds they collect are given away for free at workshops they host and events they attend, such as seed swaps.

For Tchida, seed saving is a natural outcropping of her lifelong exploration of finding ways to support the environment. “This is such an obvious and easy way,” she says. “The connection you make intrinsically with the plants throughout their whole growth process is so much fun.”

It’s time to salute the herder conservationists of Africa. Once, the term would have seemed an oxymoron. The people shepherding livestock across the continent’s great open grasslands have been widely seen as the enemies of its charismatic wild mammals — to be fenced out of protected areas and policed by armed rangers. But that image is outdated.

Today, in hundreds of community-run “conservancies” being established across tens of millions of acres of Africa, herders and their cattle are sharing the unfenced land with elephants, giraffes, wildebeest, and buffalo. Armed only with mobile phones, the herders keep their livestock safe while protecting wildlife — by alerting their fellows to marauding lions and driving off poachers in places that rangers in four-wheel drives rarely venture — and accompany high-rolling tourists who fund their conservation endeavors.

The scale and success of these community conservancies on the only continent where large mammals still run free across huge stretches of land is still a largely untold story. But a new analysis from Maliasili, a Vermont-based NGO dedicated to bolstering local African conservation initiatives, demonstrates for the first time the full extent to which wildlife is often more effectively protected within conservancies than within state-run national parks.

Maliasili found that 16 percent of Kenya’s total land mass is managed by the 230 conservancies that cover more than 22 million acres, an area the size of Indiana. In Namibia the figure is 20 percent and in Zimbabwe 12 percent. Tanzania has an area equivalent to seven Yellowstones managed for wildlife by herders, farmers, and hunter-gatherers.

Like many people raised in a white Western settler culture, I was a self-righteous skeptic who’d been taught that plants, animals, and any other other-than-human entities were barely sentient and less than; meant to be used or dominated, not befriended, let alone viewed as equals. (Even the domesticated animals we consider family in most Western cultures are treated, to some extent, as objects we “own.”) I was human, elevated, civilized; everything else was nature, base, uncivilized. This was the inviolable order of things—until, of course, I put my hand on that tree, and definitively learned that it wasn’t.

There was nothing original about my “discovery.” The idea that everyone and every “thing” is alive, has inherent worth, and is interconnected is integral to communities and cosmologies across space and time. In many indigenous languages, there isn’t even a word for “nature” as some discrete, static entity. Quite the opposite: Aboriginal Australians’ conception of Country comprises a “sentient landscape” of waterways, air, land, humans, other-than-humans, ancestors, and their relationships—a way of being and relating so complex and antithetical to dualistic thinking that it threatens to blow the White Western mind.

It would take an ego death and a spiritual rebirth for me to allow it to change mine, and a healthy dose of decolonization to see just how profoundly lonely my anthropocentric individualism had made me. Luckily, a whole world of friends awaited me on the other side.

After a decade-long campaign, Baltimore is one step closer to true accountability for its police force. Residents say the Baltimore Police Department has long used the shield of state control to act with impunity in the communities it’s sworn to serve and protect.

For the second time in two years, voters decisively approved a measure to return the Baltimore Police Department (BPD) to city control. With 77% of the vote, Question E marked the end of 160 years of BPD operating as a state agency. Voters passed a similar measure in 2022, but it was later deemed insufficient to transfer control, prompting advocates to bring the issue back to voters on the November ballot.

Now Baltimore’s elected leaders face the challenge of transforming a police force some residents view as a source of harm rather than protection.

For answers about what local control means in the fight for justice and police accountability, Baltimore Beat spoke with Ray Kelly, a key leader in the fight to return control of the Baltimore Police Department to city residents.

One of the most meaningful impacts of local control could be oversight of the Baltimore Police Department’s massive $593 million dollar budget. The Vera Institute ranked it among the highest per-capita police budgets in the country, outpacing city spending on social services like housing, healthcare, and education combined.

“In the past, the department could justify expenses with little scrutiny. Now, the city can decide how resources are allocated in ways that better serve the community,” Kelly said.

For example, the city could require police brutality settlements — which have cost taxpayers tens of millions of dollars in recent years — to come from the police budget. Officials could also require that the BPD justify excessive overtime spending. A recent state audit revealed that between January 2021 and June 2022, this cost taxpayers $66 million.

While cruising dates all the way back to Ancient Greece, it experienced its greatest boom during the 70s, a time of queer liberation when the gay community was able to experience some semblance of freedom. This was greatly impacted by the HIV crisis in the 80s, which fundamentally altered our relationship and approach to sex.

The same could be argued for Covid. The virus prevented people from going out in public, let alone being physically intimate with another human being. Dating app usage and sex toy purchases surged as a result, offering an alternative to the connection we so desperately craved. But we quickly grew tired of both, and became desperate for physical intimacy.

During the pandemic, many folks deemed cruising a safer option, as sex would be taking place outdoors. With assistance of map-based cruising apps like Sniffies making their mark around this time, cruising not only felt safer, but more accessible. Sniffies really took off following Covid in 2020. The timing was perfect, people were exhausted with endless chatting on apps, preferring n0-strings sex, which Sniffies offered. The app has only continued to grow since. For example, London saw a staggering 475 percent growth in usership from 2022 to 2023.

It would seem that for many, the queer response to an epidemic is going back to basics, and we keep finding ourselves in the same woods, parks and open spaces as the queer generations before us, where we can be free to enjoy ourselves until the next public health crisis comes along.

Since cruising has become commodifiable and as publicly accessible as ever, it’s especially important we stay safe; not only from the law, but from the possible dangers or hazards that may occur in more casual sexual environments.

A Texas anti-pornography law is going before the Supreme Court on Wednesday in a collision of free speech rights, regulation of online content and the protection of children.

Texas is among more than a dozen states with similar laws aimed at blocking young children and teenagers from viewing pornography. The adult-content site Pornhub has stopped operating altogether in several of those states, citing the technical and privacy hurdles in complying with the laws.

Texas says its measure is necessary to protect children from the current near-instantaneous access to porn, including hardcore obscene material, on smartphones. "Texas seeks to protect kids from some of the most prurient sexual content imaginable," state attorneys wrote in court documents.

The Free Speech Coalition, an adult-entertainment industry trade group, says the Texas law wrongly affects adults by requiring them to submit personal identifying information online, making it vulnerable to hacking or tracking.

Like it or not, horror gaming is often built on jump scares. Deriding a good cheap scare ignores the endorphin rush that draws so many players to the genre, in the same way that the "elevated horror" trend forfeits some of the soul of schlocky slasher flicks and ghost movies. Don’t get me wrong, Silent Hill and Alan Wake deserve their flowers - but even those games would wither on the screen if Pyramid Head didn’t bust through a wall from time to time.

One unsung jump scare game in particular pioneered horror in the internet age, blazing everywhere from nascent social media to major television networks. In fact, if you had an internet connection circa 2005, there’s a good chance you played it. Alas, it was too ahead of its time, too successful at leveraging virality before viral horror was sought after. Next time you see a streamer throw their headphones across the room in fright, beware: the spirit of Scary Maze Game is right behind you.

Like Rick Rolls and chain emails, "screamers" propagated from the ability to share media with little pretext. Screamers existed before The Maze in the form of short animations and videos—even inspiring a series of German energy drink commercials—but Winterrowd’s game set itself apart by dint of being a game. You had to initiate the jump scare yourself, and doing so required sharp focus. It was less like watching a car crash and more like cranking a jack-in-the-box.

Understandably, reactions were big. And if you couldn’t stand by your victim and watch their freakout yourself, you were in luck, because there was this shiny new website called YouTube. Reaction videos are The Maze’s first milestone contribution to online horror, and they were responsible for the game’s mainstream popularity. Internet historian Jake Lee found Maze reaction videos as early 2006, which were shown on Web Junk, The Soup, and America’s Funniest Home Videos (which was the style at the time) and parodied on Saturday Night Live in 2010.

Insurance generally operates by pooling risks. Most property owners buy home and vehicle insurance policies, and from that large pool of customers, insurance companies only have to make payouts to the few who experience costly damages. When climate change increases the frequency and intensity of disasters, insurance companies will spread the costs across the customer pool in the form of higher rates.

So even if you haven’t been directly harmed by extreme weather, you’re paying for some of the costs of those climate-worsened disasters. According to realtor.com, average U.S. home insurance rates rose nearly 34% from 2018 to 2023 – and over 11% in 2023 alone.

Some of those higher prices are related to rising inflation because repairing damaged homes has become more costly. But both home and auto insurance rates have consistently risen much faster than the rate of inflation over the past 15 years.

That’s in large part due to climate change. As one example, scientists estimated that climate change made Hurricane Helene twice as destructive and increased its rainfall by over 50% in some areas. Auto data company CARFAX estimated that the storm left as many as 138,000 vehicles flood-damaged across six states in addition to causing tens of billions of dollars in property damage.

Insurance companies themselves purchase reinsurance to make sure they can cover large losses, and reinsurance prices are rising fast to account for climate change. The world’s largest reinsurer, Munich Re, recently noted that 2024 was one of the most expensive years for weather disasters on record, with $320 billion in global losses, of which around $140 billion were insured.

Joe Velaidum can't help but wonder what could have happened if he'd lingered outside his front door for just a couple of minutes longer before taking his dogs for a walk.

The timing of their departure that day last July proved lucky. Just seconds later, a meteorite would plummet onto the front walkway of Velaidum's home in Marshfield, Prince Edward Island, shattering on impact with a reverberating smack.

"The shocking thing for me is that I was standing right there a couple of minutes right before this impact," Velaidum told CBC News.

"If I'd have seen it, I probably would've been standing right there, so it probably would've ripped me in half."

Although often associated with Satan, swords, and sorcery (and illegible logos), metal has always reflected on the environment and the state of the world. Indigenous bands have been part of the scene almost from its start more than five decades ago, but the past few years have seen a growing number of Native musicians writing about a wide range of subjects, from rurality to discrimination to the universal experience of having a good time despite all of that.

Metal is famously opaque, with around 70 subgenres, but it is almost universally accepted that everything started with Black Sabbath in 1968. Even as that British quartet was laying the foundation, XIT, pronounced “exit,” was singing about the Indigenous experience on its 1972 album Plight of the Redman.

As the 1970s gave way to the 80s, metal began splintering as bands like Metallica and Brazil’s Sepultura took it beyond the blues-based sound hard rock and metal were based upon. Testament, founded in 1983 and led by Chuck Billy, a member of the Hopland Band of Pomo Indians, sang about climate change on the 1989 album Practice What You Preach. In the song “Greenhouse Effect,” he refers to rainforests burning and “the world we know is dying slow” before singing “seal the planet’s fate, crimes they perpetrate, wasting precious land. It’s time to take a stand” in the rollicking chorus. Still, Billy doesn’t think many took the message to heart. “Twenty-five years later, everybody in the world realizes that, ‘Hey! Our climate has changed,’” he told Radio Metal.

Metal has, in recent years, grown more explicitly concerned with climate and the environment, with pagan- and folk-infused bands bringing an element of spirituality and pre-colonial romanticization. Pre-colonial Scandinavian bands like Warundra explore traditional Pagan worship that was the norm before Christianity. This connection with nature is more than vague gestures to a pan-Pagan past, according to Kathryn Rountree, an anthropologist at Massey University who wrote a paper on the topic. For Indigenous peoples, it is “connected to this-worldly social and political concerns.”