Like most humans who use the internet on a regular basis, I have recently found my inbox glutted with announcements from companies stating they are updating their terms of service and privacy policies.
They’ve arrived from companies whose products I use daily (Google and Twitter), companies who I’m not even familiar with (when did I sign up for PopBookings?) and assorted others who created apps with names I vaguely recognized but couldn’t access, most likely because I downloaded them in bars and wrote down the passwords on since-discarded cocktail napkins.
These updates are the result of Europe’s General Protection Data Regulation, a law designed to protect users’ digital privacy rights worldwide. They read like the legalese in my home mortgage and I quickly delete most of them, even though news pundits and privacy “experts” have suggested I carefully digest every line word for word so I don’t inadvertently consent to sharing my personal information with Russian-based companies determined to keep Donald Trump in office for life.
So, when I received an email from online game manufacturer King.com, I decided to don my reading glasses and squint through the entire collection of sentences and paragraphs that, upon first read, would make my college English professors collectively pound their heads against the nearest brick wall.
I chose King.com because the company created Candy Crush, the only online game I remain hopelessly addicted to. Despite snickering from my children, who long abandoned it, I continue to play Candy Crush daily. It’s my companion during airport delays, boring TV shows and conference calls featuring rambling executives blathering about the future of blockchain. But does collecting Sugar Bombs and Coconut Wheels – terms instantly familiar to Candy Crush aficionados – mean having to sacrifice my anonymity? I was about to find out.
I began by quickly scrolling through the Terms of Service and realized the King.com authors were serious, as some passages were written in all caps, most notably:
“WE SHALL NOT BE LIABLE FOR SPECIAL, INCIDENTAL OR CONSEQUENTIAL DAMAGES RESULTING FROM POSSESSION, USE, OR MALFUNCTION OF THE GAMES OR ANY OF OUR OTHER SERVICES, INCLUDING DAMAGES TO PROPERTY, COMPUTER FAILURE OR MALFUNCTION AND, TO THE EXTENT PERMITTED BY LAW, DAMAGES FOR PERSONAL INJURIES, EVEN IF WE HAVE BEEN ADVISED OF THE POSSIBILITY OF THESE DAMAGES.”
If anyone reading this column has been injured playing Candy Crush, please email me with details. I could use a good laugh.
I then read several foreboding sentences in the Privacy Policy, including:
“By downloading, accessing and/or playing our games or using our other Services, you consent to the collection of information about you by us.”
“We and our third-party partners use information collected about you to send you marketing communications about other King games and related Services based on your interests.”
“Unless you opt out of interest-based advertising as explained in this section, you consent to use and to our advertising partners collecting and using information about you to improve advertising, targeting and measurement systems so that we can show you relevant third-party ads in our games.”
Aha! There it was. Buried in paragraph 10. A sentence explaining that it was my responsibility to keep King.com from learning about, and reacting to, my browsing habits. The King.com Privacy Policy authors were nice enough to direct me to a site featuring something called the Digital Advertising Alliance’s Consumer Choice Tool. There I could reset my mobile device’s browser to, allegedly, opt out of some interest-based advertising, though the DAA site warned me that I would still receive other types of online advertising “consistent with DAA Principles.”
Basically, I feel like I just installed a security system in my home. I feel safer, but not impenetrable.
The only way to achieve complete security might be to cease playing Candy Crush. Blathering blockchain executives rejoice! I may finally start listening to you.
